The Devil's In the Details
by KidsNurse
Summary: BOOK THREE Third part of the trilogy that began with 'The Devil, You Say' and continued with 'Battling the Demons.' Study of House Wilson Cuddy friendship. Angst,hurtcomfort,psychological introspection. COMPLETE 11.27.06
1. Chapter 1: Evasion

_Well kids, here we are again; the last part of the trilogy which began with 'The Devil, You Say,' and continued with 'Battling the Demons.' Thanks for sticking with me! There's something unusual about this one; Betz88 is writing a parallel fic, 'Analysis Paralysis,' telling this same story purely from Wilson's point of view. It's absolutely awesome, and we've had great fun synchronizing the two fics. So please check it out; you'll love it! Oh, and if you've read neither 'Devil' nor 'Demons,' this one refers heavily to incidents in both—sorry. I've attempted to clarify the majority of the references, though. Good to be back! _

**Disclaimer: **_Imagination and mistakes--mine. House M.D. et al--Fox, Shore et al _mjf

**THE DEVIL'S IN THE DETAILS**

CHAPTER ONE: Evasion

Wilson leans back against the couch with a satisfied sigh. Cuddy's just left for the evening, House is engrossed in a television program, and it's been a really good day—the _first_ really good day since he and House had returned from the hospital Sunday evening, after the procedure to control House's breakthrough pain.

_Hard to believe we've been home only four days. So much has happened. Not even a full week since House collapsed in front of his team. But we pulled it off. When House goes back to work in a few weeks, all they're gonna know is he's not in so much pain. _Wilson looks over at the subject of his thoughts, studies him for a moment unobserved.

House is still gaunt, pale, underweight. To anyone else, he'd probably simply look frail and crippled. But Wilson sees something else, something far more important. House's eyes are _alive_ again. The smoldering anger that had been there for months is gone now, and the flat indifference that's been there all week has been replaced, too. Humor's returned to his eyes, and interest. But even more important, Wilson knows, is the brand new sense of security that's just starting to radiate from those honest blue eyes, a sense of safety that Wilson hasn't seen since the infarction.

Wilson had gone to see a psychologist on Monday, his old college roommate, Richard Dickinson. And Dick had told him that all these positive changes would occur. But he'd also warned Wilson that the success of the pain control procedure could bring with it some serious negative consequences for House.

_Dick's wrong. House isn't having any problems with self-perception. He's not grieving the loss of the breakthrough pain at all. Don't even think I need to discuss that aspect of it with him, in spite of what Dick suggested. He's handling it well enough on his own. No angry outbursts, no lashing out at me. Not gonna try to fix something that isn't broken; sorry Dick. We've navigated enough real problems in the last six days without creating another difficulty where none exists._

"Want a snack? Something to drink?" he says now to House. House is ending his first twenty-four hours of being on total parenteral nutrition, but he's been on an effective anti-emetic, Zofran, for two days now, and today he's finally had an appetite, and has been able to hold the food down. Wilson doesn't want to push, but he knows that House is anxious to be weaned down to the TPN administration only at night. And the only way they're gonna get there is for House's emaciated body to relearn the signals of hunger that the pain had suppressed for so long.

"Just finished dinner an hour ago," House reminds him. "But maybe a cold drink?"

"You've got it," Wilson says, getting up and heading for the kitchen. "Gimme a couple of minutes to wash up the dinner stuff, okay?"

"Not a problem." House doesn't even look at Wilson; it seems he's already reabsorbed in the program. Wilson smiles, savoring the normalcy of it all.

As soon as Wilson is out of the room, House's relaxed demeanor falls away as he clamps both hands tightly around his left thigh. _Thought he wouldn't get outta here in time, couldn't've left it alone a second more._ He presses deeply into the thigh with the palms of both hands, trying to break the tightening grip of the painful spasm. His face contorts and his eyes close tightly as he leans forward in a self-protective motion. _What the hell is happening?_

"Root beer okay?" Wilson calls cheerfully from the kitchen.

House forces himself to pull in a deep breath so he can answer in a normal voice. _Not gonna let this garbage ruin the day for him. Hasn't sounded that happy, that relaxed, in months. _And as House forces the air into his lungs, the grip of the spasm breaks, and the pain is gone. So the tone of House's voice more than matches Wilson's when he yells back, "Root beer's great! Got any vanilla ice cream to put in it?" House hears Wilson laugh, with real joy.

"That's an affirmative!" Wilson shouts. "Keep this up, we're gonna need some more food soon." House can actually _hear_ the smile in Wilson's voice, and it makes him smile too, and forget, for a minute, his promise to himself to tell Wilson about the leg tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow, the familiar clenching pain will be gone.

_I fell that first night home; could've pulled a muscle. And all that damned retching, vomiting. Wouldn't be the first time I wrenched something doing that. Could still be nothing._ House pushes away the loudest voice in his brain, the medical voice that's telling him that this pain isn't related to anything simple.

Wilson enters the living room carrying two root beer floats on a tray, and he's still smiling. "Won't be long before we can trade these in for _real_ beer," he tells House as he hands him a glass.

"_You_ can have the real stuff," House reminds him.

"Oh, no. The next beer I drink is gonna be to celebrate with you." Wilson's cellphone rings then; he sets down the tray and checks the caller ID. It's Cuddy; his intuition tells him to take the call out of House's hearing, so he heads back into the kitchen.

"What's up?"

"I didn't get a chance to tell you that House seems to be having trouble with the left leg," Cuddy tells him. "He blamed it on that epi injection from the anaphylactic reaction, but I'm not buying it. I'd intended to check into it further, but then you came back to the apartment, and it just seemed like a better idea to let him have a day where the focus wasn't on his health."

"Gotta agree with you there," Wilson says. "He's more relaxed than I've seen him in a while. As a matter of fact, he's actually drinking a root beer float right now!"

Cuddy laughs. "Hey, the more calories, the better. Maybe you should just let the leg thing go 'til tomorrow. Whatever it is, it's intermittent, and it doesn't appear to be getting any worse, so I don't think waiting would cause any harm."

"Sounds like a plan to me. I'm just disappointed, I guess, that he hasn't mentioned it. It was starting to look like we were moving past all the distrust issues."

"I still think we are," Cuddy says. "This is House; if this thing with his left leg is new, he may still be denying it to himself, downplaying it in his own mind. If that's the case, then he wouldn't be ready to mention it to anyone yet."

"Good point," Wilson says, with some relief. "I'll just leave it alone until tomorrow, then. To tell you the truth, I'm enjoying this day, too. Not anxious to say anything to him that might ruin it."

Wilson concludes the conversation with Cuddy, and returns to the living room, where House proudly holds up his empty glass for Wilson's inspection. Wilson smiles his approval, and refrains from asking how House is feeling. _Just be his friend tonight_, he tells himself.

House sets down the empty glass, and tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn. "Wanna watch that O.C. episode you missed the other night?" he says, through a second yawn.

_How can I get him to realize he needs some rest without sounding like Dr. Wilson? _Wilson yawns extravagantly himself, rubs his eyes, and stretches. "No; if it's okay with you, I'll just doze in the chair while you watch it. I'm pretty beat, but you go ahead and watch your show."

House looks relieved that Wilson's admitted to being tired; he immediately shuts off the television. "No, that's okay. I could use some sleep too," he says.

As he rolls the IV pole to help House get to the bedroom, Wilson covertly watches House's gait. He's satisfied that there's nothing abnormal going on, at least not right now.

Wilson helps House get settled in bed, then does an assessment and gets the last lab draw of the day. It's become routine the last few nights for him to sit by the bed until House falls asleep, and as he gives the package to the lab courier, he wonders whether or not House will want him there tonight.

When he returns to the bedroom, he smiles at the answer to his question; House is already soundly sleeping. Wilson shuts out the light and goes to the living room. He settles down on the couch with a sigh of satisfaction; it's been a good day. He falls asleep almost as quickly as House had.


	2. Chapter 2: Trust

CHAPTER TWO: Trust

Wilson enters the bedroom quietly. It's 6:30am, and House is still sleeping, undisturbed by the beeping IV pump. Wilson hangs the new TPN bag and administers a dose of Zofran. As he turns to leave the room, House stirs and opens his eyes.

"Go back to sleep," Wilson tells him. "Just hung a new bag; you're good to go. Too early to be up."

"_You're_ up. Besides, I went to bed around nine; been sleeping over nine hours. Can't sleep much more. "_And," _House brightens; "I'm up early enough to catch _Blue's Clues_ from the beginning! Ya miss that first clue, you're screwed for the rest of the show. 'Course," he frowns thoughtfully, "hasn't been the same since they replaced Steve with Joe. That was _so_ cold."

Wilson stares at him, open-mouthed. "You're serious?"

"_Always_ been a big supporter of educational TV. Gotta admit, though, never did get into those Teletubbies; Tinky Winky just... weirded me out." He shudders.

Wilson considers the advisability of pursuing this conversation, and decides, firmly, against it. As a matter of fact, he'd prefer to pretend it never happened. "Umm… so, you ready to hike to the living room?"

"Yeah; that's where the _TV_ is," House grins wickedly. Then his face grows serious. "And… we need to talk."

"About what? 'Cuz I'm really not up for an in-depth debate about SpongeBob Squarepants' tastes in music; we covered that pretty thoroughly already. And Cuddy, by the way, was _not_ happy about being pulled into that discussion. "

"Can we… do this over breakfast?" House asks; he looks almost nervous.

"Sure." Wilson's worried about the left leg; he wants to observe House walking. "Let me disconnect the IV and get your cane, okay?"

House nods, reluctantly.

When Wilson hands him the cane, he sees House eye it almost fearfully. But House stands and makes his way out of the room without apparent difficulty, and settles himself easily on the couch in the living room.

Wilson goes into the kitchen, puzzled. He can't imagine what House wants to talk about, but it sounds serious. He prepares eggs and toast, and carries the plates to the living room.

It's midway through breakfast before House begins to speak. "There may be a little problem with my leg. The… left one. Sure it's nothing." He puts down his fork, and watches Wilson's face carefully.

"You're probably right, but why don't you tell me exactly what's been going on," Wilson says. He keeps his voice casual, and continues to eat. _He brought it up himself! Progress, _real_ progress._

"I've been having some… uh… pain. Since Monday, I think. Pain feels kind've… familiar."

"Like it did during the infarction?" Wilson has to force the words past the sudden fear that's closed up his throat. It hadn't previously occurred to him, but if House is describing thigh symptoms as '_familiar'_…. Wilson puts down his fork, drops all pretense that this is just a casual conversation, and focuses his full attention on House.

"No, not like that. More like the way the right leg's felt the last few months. Spasmodic. Clenching." There's a long pause. "Bad."

Wilson is still studying House. "You're _certain_ it doesn't feel like it did… then?"

House actually rolls his eyes, but it seems to Wilson that he's too quick to dismiss the idea. "You think I'd be sitting here, calmly discussing this, if I thought it could be an infarct?" House asks him.

_I really don't know; wish I did. But since you're actually telling me about it, well… makes it easier to believe you're telling the truth. _"How often is this happening?"

"Few times a day. Not so bad if I watch my stride."

_Ah, so that explains the controlled gait Cuddy and I've been seeing since Monday! _"Does it happen when you're _not_ walking?" Silence, as House looks away. "House…" Wilson says quietly.

"Yeah. Sometimes." House takes a deep breath and looks back at Wilson. "But it's probably nothing. I took that fall the first night home, and again Monday night. Or all the vomiting. Either of those things could've caused a pulled muscle."

_Yeah, but the fall Sunday was minor, harmless. And Cuddy noticed the changes in stride _before_ the Monday incident. And if you thought that's what it _really_ was, you wouldn't be looking at me like that, almost pleading with me to agree with you. _"It's… possible," Wilson finally says. "But we need to get it figured out. When I draw the labs this morning, I'll get some extra blood, have 'em run enzymes and--"

"I told you it's not an infarct!" House interrupts angrily. _Too_ angrily, in Wilson's opinion.

Wilson smiles at him almost gently. "Humor me. We're not taking any chances, that's all. If it's a severe muscle pull, your enzymes'll be elevated anyway. And I'll get us scheduled at Princeton General for some x-rays, an MRI. I think we can get it done this evening, after hours. Don't want you to have to wait too long."

_Still protecting me, keeping it all private. Thanks, Jimmy. _"You think all that's necessary? Sounds like a lot of trouble for muscle strain."

"Hey, you're getting healthy, and I'm getting bored. Just let me feel like a real doctor for a little while." Wilson smiles, but House doesn't smile back.

"What do _you_ think it is?" House asks quietly.

_I'd tell any other patient that there's no sense speculating and worrying until we have more information. And any other patient would buy that, because they'd want to. He's scared right now; maybe he needs that same kind of hope. _"Not gonna make myself crazy guessing. Let's just wait until we have some concrete results. We'll deal with it from there," Wilson says, and the confidence in his voice pushes back a little of the fear in House's eyes.

As Wilson stands to gather the supplies for the lab draw, he says, "I'm gonna move the labs to twice a day now, 8:00am and 8:00pm. And you're stable enough that I feel comfortable putting the vitals and assessment on the same schedule. That okay with you?"

"Yeah. What I wanna know is when you're gonna schedule the TPN for overnight only." House is clearly glad of the subject change, and Wilson knows he's looking for the diversion of an argument; he's eyeing the extra blood tubes Wilson's filling.

"I think once you've gained twenty-five pounds, we can go to night feeds."

"Twenty-five? That'll take too long. Fifteen," House states firmly.

Hiding his smile, Wilson plays along. "Nope. Twenty-five. You've already gained six, according to that antique bathroom scale of yours. That's only nineteen more."

"It'd be only _nine_ more if we were shooting for fifteen," House says stubbornly.

"Tell ya what," Wilson says. "Let's split the difference. Twenty. You're only fourteen pounds away. About a week."

"Guess I can live with that," House says grudgingly.

As Wilson reconnects the TPN line, he's biting the inside of his cheek to hide the smile. _Cuddy and Dick are right; the 'precocious kid' approach is a winner. Why couldn't they have shared that little secret years ago? _"Twenty it is," he tells House as he bags the tubes. _I actually feel like I finally have things under control with our favorite four year old._

"What about the Zofran?" House asks.

"What about it? Another couple of weeks on that. Non-negotiable."

"Not what I meant. When can we switch it to oral? Nausea's pretty much under control; no reason to keep getting it IV, is there?"

Wilson's been waiting for this; it's another victory in House's recovery. House has not only just acknowledged the continued need for the anti-emetic, he's also indicated a willingness to take it himself. Wilson pretends to consider House's request. "I suppose we could try that," he says after a moment. "You sure you're gonna take it?"

"I _said_ I would, didn't I?" House sounds irritable about the issue, and Wilson thinks he may have pushed it too far.

"Okay," Wilson says. "You're now officially in charge of your own oral meds." He ceremoniously hands the bottles of hydrocodone and Zofran to House, and is touched by the oddly pleased expression on House's face. It's such a small thing, but to House it means regaining some of the control he's been forced to give up.

"Sure you don't wanna count the pills before you give 'em to me?" House asks sarcastically.

Wilson starts guiltily; he'd actually considered doing just that. He meets House's eyes. "Are you kidding?" he asks his friend. "That's _so_ unnecessary. Around here, trust is the order of the day!" And he almost believes it.


	3. Chapter 3: Testing

CHAPTER THREE: Testing

House has eaten all of his lunch, and is now happily channel-surfing, apparently looking for the loudest, most combative talk show he can find.

Wilson's made arrangements with Princeton General for the studies of House's left leg this evening. He's had to call in a couple of favors, but it'll all be done after hours, and they'll have the preliminary results before they leave the hospital. Now his concern is how House will tolerate the trip and the procedures.

House really doesn't seem to understand yet just how weak he is, nor how long it's going to take for him to regain his stamina. That's fine when he's just taking a few steps around the apartment and Cuddy or Wilson can covertly observe, and casually give assistance as needed. It's another story to add in a car ride and long hospital corridors, as well as the stress of the tests themselves. It's obvious to Wilson that a wheelchair will be necessary; he isn't looking forward to laying down the law on that one.

Wilson's ordered an MRI and radiographs of both legs, as well as an MRI and CT scan of the spine. He's also arranged for an electromyography and nerve conduction study of the left thigh, should it be necessary. Wilson's not mentioning these last tests to House; he's hoping fervently that the painful EMG studies won't be needed.

When the phone rings, Wilson is in the kitchen putting away a grocery delivery, so he almost yells to House to answer it. Then he remembers that they're awaiting lab results on this morning's blood draw. He doesn't think that House's new condition is another infarction, but he knows that _House_ fears it might be—House's anger at mention of a possible infarct had been out of proportion; Wilson had better take this call himself.

After hanging up the phone, Wilson goes directly to the living room, and isn't surprised that House already has his eyes trained on him as he enters. "It's not an infarct," he says without preamble. "I had them run every blood chemistry in the book, and absolutely everything is within normal limits." Now he allows himself to smile at House as he continues, "You are, in fact, amazingly healthy, considering you're so sick."

"Told ya," House responds, as he returns his eyes to the television screen. "You worry too much."

Wilson pretends he doesn't hear the deep, relieved sigh at the end of the sentence, pretends he doesn't see House's eyes close briefly as his mouth curves into a smile. "Nice to have it confirmed, anyway," Wilson says over his shoulder as he returns to the kitchen.

At 7:00pm, Wilson hovers as House makes his way slowly, carefully, out of the apartment and down the concrete steps to the car. By the time he reaches the car, House's hand is trembling on the cane as he waits for Wilson to open the passenger door, and once House is seated he leans his head back and closes his eyes.

_Might not have as much trouble over the wheelchair as I thought_, Wilson thinks. _Even I didn't expect him to be this worn out, this quickly. Maybe I should've let Cuddy know what's going on; looks like I could've used her help._

Wilson had mentioned updating Cuddy earlier; House had been adamantly against it, and, in the interest of peace—and assuring House's continued cooperation—Wilson had agreed not to say anything to her until they had the test results. Now he's regretting the decision. _House has been putting on such a good show the last couple of days; guess I forgot how far he still has to go._

When they arrive at the hospital, Wilson pulls up to the door of the doctors' entrance; the wheelchair he'd requested is there awaiting them. He shoots a quick glance at House. They have a five second battle with their eyes, and then House looks away and nods curtly.

When they enter Radiology for the x-rays, House's good behavior is already making Wilson nervous. Wilson is the one who has to speak up when the tech wants House to stand for the first set of films; House was actually going to try to obey the request. He helps House get settled, as comfortably as possible, on the hard metal table, and then he requests a lead apron for himself.

The tech rolls her eyes at him. "Usually, we only let _parents_ stay with _kids_. I don't think your friend qualifies."

_I do. And I'm not leaving him. _"Just get me the apron, please," Wilson tells her politely, in a tone that will brook no argument. Had the apron not been so heavy, he's sure she would have thrown it at him.

The first set of films goes smoothly, but as Wilson is helping to reposition House for the second set, he sees him wince sharply. "You okay?" he asks, and is not reassured when House simply nods. Wilson moves reluctantly away from the table.

Before the tech can start shooting the films, House gasps and grabs at his left thigh. The tech commands him, "You need to stay still, sir. Please move your hand." As House attempts to obey, Wilson sees sweat break out on his forehead, and notes that House is biting down, hard, on his lower lip.

Now it's Wilson's turn to issue a command. "Stop. Now," he tells the tech as he moves toward House.

"I need to get these shots, Doctor. Please move back from the table and let me do my job." Her voice is irritated.

Wilson continues to House's side, not even sparing a glance toward the technician. "You _will_ wait," he growls at her. "I'm seeing to the comfort of my patient; that takes priority right now."

"It's okay, Jimmy," House almost whispers; his voice is strained. "I'll be okay; let's just get this done." He's still trying to massage his left thigh.

Wilson shakes his head. "No. You're not going to be uncomfortable unnecessarily." He removes two syringes from his pocket. "It's morphine, five milligrams," he tells House as he swabs the port in the PICC line. "It'll make all this a lot easier." He pushes the medication slowly, then flushes it with the syringe of normal saline as House, slightly puzzled, stares at him.

"What?" he asks House. "If _you_ suffer now, _I'll_ be the one to suffer later; just lookin' out for my own interests." The admiring smirk on House's face means almost as much to Wilson as the gratitude in his eyes.

Wilson waits five minutes, gets a pulse and a respiratory rate, notes that House is no longer holding his body so tensely. "You can continue now," he tells the tech, who sighs theatrically but resumes shooting the x-rays.

As he escorts House into Nuclear Medicine, it's immediately apparent that Wilson's newfound reputation has preceded him; here, the techs treat House like royalty, and look, in deference, to Wilson for his instructions on how to handle this VIP. Wilson is glad of their kindness, but even happier that House is so clearly amused by the techs' fear of mean ol' Dr. Wilson. The remainder of the scheduled studies go smoothly, and House, feeling comfortable and cared for, dozes off in the wheelchair as Wilson anxiously awaits the results, alone.


	4. Chapter 4: Decisions

**A/N: **_Happy Birthday to Dragen Eyez and to Exotic Emeralds!_ mjf

CHAPTER FOUR: Needles

Wilson sits quietly with the results of the studies in his hands, trying to decide what to do next. No, that's not true; his medical training tells him that the EMG and nerve conduction study are clearly necessary, and that there's no decision to make. But the other part of him, the part which embodies his love and concern for House, is forcing him to try to seek a way around it. Finally, he regretfully acknowledges that this cannot be avoided. _Jimmy_ is upset, and already hurting for his friend, but _Dr. Wilson_ knows what _has_ to come next. He looks thoughtfully over at House, who's still dozing fitfully in the wheelchair. He takes a deep breath, stands up, and goes to kneel at House's side.

House opens his eyes and looks down at the folder in Wilson's hand, then raises his eyes to meet Wilson's. "So?" he asks, in a voice hoarse with fatigue.

Wilson hands him the folder. "All the preliminary results show pretty much what we'd expect. Some normal changes of aging, and a small amount of spinal degeneration consistent with sequelae of the infarct. Nothing that would account for the severity of pain in your left thigh."

House opens the folder and glances over the results. "So that's it, then. A pulled muscle, or a strained tendon. Can we find my clothes and go home now?"

Wilson stands up and looks at House. "I'm sorry, no. We need to go to Neurology; I scheduled an EMG and a nerve conduction study, and we might as well get it over with. Timing's good; you've got extra pain meds on board, you've had a little rest. And then we'll be all done with everything, and we can go home." _I feel as if I'm speaking to a child; Dick had better be right. Can't imagine that House would get any comfort from being treated like this—I'd think he'd be insulted._

"I don't think all this is necessary," House says, and his voice is hard.

_There's the reaction I was expecting_, Wilson thinks. So he's surprised when House looks at him questioningly and continues to speak.

"But _you_ apparently do," House tells him, and waits expectantly for Wilson to nod. "You're the doctor. So let's just get it over with."

_Well, I'll be damned! Score one for the shrink._ Wilson shakes his head with rueful amusement as he steers the chair towards Neurology.

Even the intravenous dose of morphine Wilson had administered earlier can't fully blunt the acute pain of an electromyogram. As the needle is stuck repeatedly into House's left quadriceps, House initially attempts his characteristic snide commentary, and even the physiatrist is laughing with him.

But when his half-hearted joke about "the ultimate gating mechanism for pain" falls flat, he seems to give up, and to give in to the torment. His eyes are shut tightly, and each time the needle goes in again, Wilson winces in sympathy with the quiet agony on his face.

When House, during an especially painful needle insertion, flails out blindly with his hand and catches Wilson's left wrist in an agonizing vice grip, Wilson simply stands there stoically, and covers House's hand with his own. Tomorrow morning, when he sees the bruise House's thumb is making on his inner wrist, he knows he'll fully realize the extent of the torture House is going through—but for right now, Wilson is praying that somehow, his touch dilutes the suffering for House.

It's almost 11:00pm by the time Wilson pulls the car out of the hospital parking lot. After he'd helped House transfer from the wheelchair to the passenger seat, he'd folded the wheelchair and placed it in the trunk, without comment. House had glared at him as he'd closed the trunk and got in the car. Wilson had answered the glare with a neutral expression, refusing to engage in battle, until finally, House had looked away, and simply sighed. Wilson's won another conflict, but the sadness he feels eclipses any sense of victory.

House is obviously uncomfortable on the drive home, but apparently he's just too tired to complain. He answers Wilson's expressions of concern with a short, "I'm fine," and lapses into silence again.

When they arrive back at the apartment, House wordlessly allows Wilson to help him up the steps, and, once inside, to lower him carefully to the couch. Wilson had thought that House would want to go straight to sleep, but—as fatigued as he is—he appears alert, and almost… Wilson searches for the word to describe House's odd mood. _Disturbed_, he finally decides. _Maybe he's angry that I put him through all that; looks like he's gonna turn out to be right, just a simple pulled muscle._

It would be late Monday, or even Tuesday, before they had the final results on all the studies, but nothing unexpected had shown up in any of the tests. House had had no comment at the time, had just nodded his head. Wilson had expected some well-deserved gloating, or at least a smug, "I _told_ you so," and it concerns him that he hasn't heard it yet. It's not like House _not_ to crow about being proven correct.

When Wilson returns from the kitchen with an ice pack for House's needle-bitten left thigh, he's surprised that House is not watching TV, not playing a video game. He's just sitting there. Waiting, apparently. His face is serious and thoughtful, and Wilson's struck again by its gauntness, by the fatigue written in every line.

As House has become thinner and weaker, though, it seems that his eyes have become stronger, more intense, and somehow even more expressive. The hard-won six pound weight gain of the last few days hasn't yet touched the sharply chiseled planes of his haggard, pale face; it's an incongruous setting for his vivid blue eyes. And right now, the expression in those eyes is sad, and puzzled.

Wilson places the towel-wrapped ice pack gently along House's left thigh, then sits beside him on the couch. Instinct tells him not to say anything; whatever's bothering House, he'll share it only when he's ready.

The two men sit in silence for several minutes. House finally looks at Wilson. "It's not just some minor injury. There's something wrong. I know it."

Wilson thinks about this before he answers. "We've done pretty much every test available. So far, everything's normal, but we don't have the final results yet. Why don't we wait until we have those; there's really not much else we can do right now except deal with the symptoms. I'll admit, I _am_ concerned that the pain seems to be unaffected by the super-Vic. But really, that lends more credence to the theory that this is some sort of an acute injury."

House is searching his face, and it takes Wilson a moment to realize that House is looking for reassurance, for the calm confidence that all his patients look for, when he's the only thing standing between them and the unknown. And he's inexplicably moved by this, by the still-new realization that this skittish, angry best friend of his, his deeply troubled brother of the heart, has chosen to trust him so completely. So when he looks back at House, his own eyes shine with warmth and compassion and assurance as he says, very quietly, "It'll be okay. We'll get through this. It _will_ be all right."

House's eyes bore into his a moment more before he looks away uncomfortably; it's clear that he _wants_ to believe what Wilson is saying. But it's almost as if he's having trouble granting himself permission to do so. So Wilson keeps talking. His words aren't thought out now; he's speaking purely on instinct.

"It's okay, House. Don't fight it so hard, and don't fight it alone. I'm here. I _want_ to be here, and I want you to let me fight the battles for now, while you get your strength back. That's your only job; I'll take care of all the rest."

Wilson has, thus far, been careful not to look at House while he speaks. But now, he makes a point of looking directly at him. "You chose me as your physician. I'm… honored that you did. And I take that… trust… very seriously. You'll get through all this. _We'll_ get through it. Together. That's just the way it's supposed to be."

Now Wilson stands, and turns away from the couch, away from House, as he says, "Back in a minute. You've been off the TPN long enough; gonna go set it up for the night. Just relax a few minutes." _Yeah, I know I just stormed the gates, and you're uncomfortable right now. Maybe even scared. So take some time, think about it. Get used to it. It's okay._


	5. Chapter 5: Discomfort

**A/N: **_Due to some confusion, I must clarify something here. Betz88 is quoting extensively from 'Details' in 'AP,' as she points out in her summary, and you will see much more of that as the chapters start lining up time-wise. However, the bulk of her Chapter Six is indeed my writing; the entire session between Wilson and Dickinson belongs to me, except for Dickinson's inner thoughts during the session, and Wilson's puzzlement at the end. The lovely descriptions and anything that didn't take place in the session itself (e.g. the lunch break) are Betz88's. I created a voicefile of Wilson's session, and gave her permission to use it. You'll be seeing that voicefile later in 'Details,' as I wrote it when I decided to do this story. _mjf

CHAPTER FIVE: Discomfort

After Wilson gets the IV pump set up in the bedroom, he returns to the living room. House has somehow managed to swing his legs onto the couch, and he's moving restlessly beneath a thin blanket. Wilson watches for just a moment, then continues on to the kitchen. Although his instincts tell him to go to House's side, his respect for the privacy of House's pain is stronger; he forces himself to grant House that dignity.

When he's got a fresh pot of coffee brewing, several minutes have passed and his worry has grown. He stands quietly at the entryway, watching as House tries—and fails—to get comfortable.

House must sense the concerned eyes on him; he turns his head and fixes Wilson with a hard stare. But what could have been an awkward moment passes, when Wilson conversationally offers coffee and a snack. He's careful to hide his sympathy, his guilt at being the indirect cause of this new pain. And if House notices either, he pretends he doesn't.

They eat in companionable silence, and Wilson is happy to see that House appears to be enjoying the late meal. He's eaten half a muffin hungrily, and Wilson is just about to encourage him to eat the other half when the calm is shattered as House's coffee cup hits the floor, and he's unable to silence a strangled gasp.

His hands fly unsteadily to his left leg, but the pain of the needle sticks makes it impossible for him to massage the muscle. Each time he tries to touch the tender areas, he seems to cause himself more torment. Finally, he reaches out wildly towards Wilson, grasping his wrist as if reaching for an anchor.

Wilson gently untangles the sweaty fingers from his own already-bruised wrist and instinctively pulls the trembling body to him. He knows he can't touch the leg, so he tries to ease House's agony with a quiet, constant murmur of reassurance, and with the comfort of human contact. But even as he tries to help, Wilson's mind is telling him that this is everything House hates—and fears. _I could be undoing everything here… but there's nothing else to do…._

House's mind is as tormented right now as his body; he's railing against his own need for comfort as much as he's fighting the sudden physical agony. Then he catches a glimpse of Wilson's face, and in the one part of his brain that's always escaped, unscathed, from both the pain and the drugs, the analytical part, he notes something almost clinically; _Anyone watching wouldn't be able to tell which of us was hurting more…._

Wilson continues a stream of soothing words, and finally he feels House's grip relax on his arm, his head sag against his shoulder for just a moment before House pulls away from him, slowly. And without apology, without embarrassment.

Wilson, however, is still uncomfortable, so he falls back into more familiar territory—_Dr._ Wilson examines the left thigh for any medical indication of what might have caused the latest attack. Finding nothing, he reminds himself that an acute injury really is the best-case scenario; acute injuries heal, symptoms go away, things go back to normal.

"I'm gonna go get some more ice packs for your leg; then we'll get you settled for the night," he tells House, who nods and closes his eyes—the spasm has sapped his small store of strength.

After Wilson has everything set up in the bedroom, and he's given House 600mg of ibuprofen, he offers the cane to House, but House just shakes his head. Wilson briefly considers retrieving the wheelchair from the car, but quickly decides they'll deal with that tomorrow.

House allows Wilson to support most of his weight on the slow walk to the bedroom, and even offers a grumbled "thanks" after he's settled in bed. Wilson connects the TPN to the PICC line, fusses with the ice packs for a few minutes, straightens out the supplies on the nightstand—despite his own fatigue, he's clearly reluctant to leave the room. So House closes his eyes and feigns sleep, despite his discomfort and restlessness. And after just half a minute of pretending to be asleep, the real thing takes over, and he's out.

Wilson hears the subtle change in House's breathing, and smiles. Knowing that House is as comfortable as possible, he can now give in to his own weariness. He leaves the room quietly.

After cleaning up the spilled coffee in the living room, he returns to the kitchen, where he prepares another, smaller, ice pack. He takes it with him to the living room, collapses onto the couch, and turns on the television, muting the sound. The flickering images provide him a strange comfort as he gingerly ices his swollen, discolored left wrist. When some of the pain has been numbed by the cold, he's able to doze. But he doesn't allow himself to lie down, won't even allow himself a pillow. House might need him tonight, and he's going to be alert enough to be there for him.

At 4:20am, Wilson is glad of his determination not to sleep; he's been roused out of his light doze by an oddly familiar sound, and he realizes immediately that it's the heavy tap of House's cane hitting the floor. Wilson is up off the couch and headed towards the bedroom in an instant.

House is only four steps away from the bed; his body is folded over the cane, and his face is contorted with the effort of trying to straighten up to take the next step. Wilson approaches him slowly, and supports his elbows so he can stand upright.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks quietly.

"Just needed some more ibuprofen; thought I'd get it myself. Sorry I woke you." House's face is composed, but Wilson sees the squint of his eyes, the lines at their corners that indicate the pain's bad enough for House to risk this stupid move.

Wilson helps House turn around and take the few steps back to the bed. He knows that House is searching his face to determine how angry he is—but he isn't angry. Wilson is scared, and grateful that nothing bad happened, and aware that he's going to have to approach this carefully. "Be right back; gonna get that ibuprofen," he says.

In the kitchen, Wilson makes fresh ice packs and grabs the pill bottle. He takes a few deep breaths and prepares the opening line of the conversation they're going to have to have. Then he returns to the bedroom. He hands House the pills and waits for him to swallow them before he positions the fresh ice packs on the now obviously bruised thigh. Another deep breath. "House."

"Jimmy, I been thinking. Maybe we oughtta bring that chair in for a while. Leg's never gonna heal if I keep aggravating it."

Wilson stares at House; when he sees the right side of House's mouth quirk up, he realizes that House had known what was coming, and had made a decision not to fight it. So Wilson decides not to make a big deal out of this unexpected acquiescence. "Good thinking," he says. "Don't know why I didn't think of it myself. I'll make sure I get it out of the trunk first thing in the morning."

"Thanks," House says, as he leans his head into the pillows and closes his eyes, ready to go back to sleep. "Now leave me alone, need to sleep."

Wilson shuts out the light. As he's leaving, he hears House say quietly, into the sudden darkness, "And get some ice on that left wrist. Looks awful; it's gotta hurt. Ice it, okay?"

"Will do," Wilson almost whispers, as he walks away.


	6. Chapter 6: Tantrums

CHAPTER SIX: Tantrums

In the morning, House looks more rested than Wilson does, and is in far better spirits. After Wilson unhooks his TPN, he transfers himself easily from the bed to the wheelchair, and races it down the hall while Wilson follows in a bemused fog, muttering about vital signs and medication while House ignores him.

But the good mood dissipates as soon as Wilson mentions a scheduled trip to Philadelphia, to have lunch with Dr. Dickinson. House trails him into the kitchen, where Wilson searches desperately for clean mugs for urgently needed coffee. "Do you _have_ to go? Today?" House asks plaintively, and Wilson suddenly feels torn, like a parent who must go to work and desert a sick child.

"It's okay; Cuddy'll be here soon. I'm sure you can find _some_ way to terrorize her with your new toy," Wilson says, indicating the wheelchair. But House refuses to be distracted or placated.

"C'mon, you don't need a shrink. And you _don't_ need to eat lunch with some nerd left over from college. Why don't you stay here? We'll turn on Oprah and throw Nerf balls at the screen again every time someone says '_feelings.'_ I think she's got Dr. Phil on today; it'll be a two-fer!"

"House, I gotta go. I _want_ to go. I'm going."

House's brows knit as he goes into a pout, and Wilson can tell that the campaign hasn't even hit full stride yet. So he isn't surprised when House looks up at him with his best 'pathetic cripple' expression, and virtually whines, "What if the leg gets as bad as last night? Cuddy won't know what to do; you _gotta_ stay, Jimmy…."

Wilson looks at him with tolerant amusement as he pretends to consider this latest sad plea. He has a difficult time keeping his mouth from twitching as he says, deadpan, "Can you say _man-ip-u-LA-tion_? Won't work, House. But bonus points for the protruding lower lip."

There's a knock at the door, and with a frustrated "hmmph!" House gracefully executes a turn in the wheelchair and goes to answer it. Wilson's busy trying to figure out if the growth he's found in two dusty mugs might count as a dose of antibiotics.

When House returns to the kitchen with Cuddy in tow, her arms are crossed against her chest and she's already glaring. Wilson arranges his face into a stern expression, and looks questioningly at House.

"Dad, you _can't_ leave me alone with this babysitter; she _beat_ me last time!" When House notes that Cuddy and Wilson are just looking at him, expressionless, he tries again. "She tried to seduce me?"

Wilson bites hard at the inside of his cheek while Cuddy explodes, "House!" It's shaping up to be a long day at 221B, and Wilson's glad he won't be here.

"I know when _I'm_ not wanted," House harrumphs, and wheels out of the kitchen. In a few seconds, they hear the television blaring the theme from _General Hospital_.

Cuddy and Wilson grin at each other, and Wilson shakes his head, wondering if he should even bother to apologize for House's behavior.

"The most obvious question, which I knew better than to ask _him_," Cuddy says, "is what's he doing in a wheelchair? The less obvious, but far more intriguing question, would be why he's Velcroed himself to you all of a sudden?"

This second question irritates Wilson, who is indeed feeling guilty about leaving House, and the sudden spark of anger in his eyes shocks Cuddy. "You have _no idea_ what he went through last night, _no idea_ of the degree of his pain! You have no right to criticize _any_ insecurity he might be show--" Wilson interrupts himself when he sees Cuddy staring at him, open-mouthed. His own eyes widen; he's as shocked at his unexpected outburst as she is.

"I'm so sorry," Wilson tells her as he sinks into a chair, suddenly and completely overwhelmed by both the physical and the emotional toll of the long night. "Of course you have no idea; I didn't tell you. You know that whole new thing with his gait that you noticed on Monday?" He waits while Cuddy nods slowly; she's clearly still stunned at the explosive behavior of her normally mild-mannered oncologist. Wilson considers apologizing again, decides that a quick and concise summary would provide a better explanation for his uncharacteristic tantrum.

"Turns out that his left thigh has been bothering him, badly, since then. Pain and spasming pretty heavily a few times a day. And the super-Vic's not touching it. Cost him a lot to tell me about it, and he got me to agree not to mention anything to you until we knew more about what's causing it. I took him to Princeton General last night, put him through the full battery of tests, including an EMG." Cuddy winces in sympathy as Wilson nods ruefully and displays his bruised wrist, where the imprint of House's thumb is evident.

"It was all really rough on him," Wilson continues, "and it's beginning to look like it was unnecessary. The preliminary results didn't show anything unexpected. Probably won't have the final results until Tuesday, but based on what I saw last night, I'm not expecting anything new to show up. Beginning to look like the diagnostician was right. Again. A pulled muscle, or more likely a tendon; his enzymes are all within normal limits."

"And the chair?" Cuddy asks. She's starting to understand that something must have occurred last night that had fallen fully on Wilson's exhausted shoulders.

"Caught him trying to get up during the night. He was doubled up over the cane; he could've fallen badly. We're… uh… both pretending that the chair was his idea. He seems a lot better this morning, but you need to know that when the spasms come, they look an awful lot like the breakthrough pain he was having before. And I think he's scared. Told me when we got home that he knows something is bad wrong; didn't have any medical basis for it, but he believes this is serious."

Cuddy frowns. "And _could_ it be serious?"

Wilson smiles without humor. "Not gonna second-guess House; I've learned my lesson. And the pain's so severe; with House, that _makes_ it serious, no matter what the diagnosis turns out to be."

"What should I do if the leg spasms?" Cuddy's eyes are concerned; it makes Wilson feel better to see how earnestly she's taking this new situation.

"Whatever he'll _let_ you do," Wilson answers honestly, sadly. "Just don't touch the muscle, especially when it's acute. The quad's a big muscle, and I… lost count of how many times they stuck him, and…."

"I get the picture," Cuddy responds grimly. "So the EMG just added to the problem for a couple of days. I almost feel sorry for him. Surprised he agreed to go through with it."

"He didn't. Not really. He did it because… I told him to. And he trusted me." Wilson lowers his head into his hands, and for a moment Cuddy's worry for House is eclipsed by her concern for Wilson.

"Are you gonna be okay?" When Wilson doesn't respond, she starts towards him, but they both hear the wheelchair approaching and Wilson lifts his head and smiles.

"I'm just fine, thanks," Wilson tells her, and turns the smile to House.

House looks at Wilson appraisingly, and Wilson stands and says heartily to Cuddy, "And if he drives you _too_ crazy, just reconnect the TPN—which has been off too long anyway—and refuse to put the IV pole on the wheelchair. That'll buy you, oh, at least ten minutes of peace. Until he figures out how to attach the cane to the chair and hang the bag from it."

House peers at Wilson a moment more, and frowns thoughtfully, seriously, as he turns and leaves the doorway.

Wilson sits down again and lowers his voice. "Ironic, isn't it? He's completely mobile in that chair; not really disabled at all. And he's willing to give up that freedom because his pride won't let him acknowledge the extent of his disability."

Cuddy nods thoughtfully, and doesn't realize how effectively Wilson's distracted her from his own emotional state. Her thoughts have returned to House. "I'm still not clear what I should do for him if the left thigh gets bad."

"If it's really bad, give him 5mg of morphine. But he won't tell you he needs it; he might even say he _doesn't_. So it'll have to be your call. Otherwise, all you can do is offer whatever comfort he'll accept, until the spasm ends."

"Now I understand why he's so reluctant for you to leave today," Cuddy says. "As a matter of fact, _I'm_ feeling a little reluctant myself." She smiles wryly.

"You'll do just fine," Wilson assures her. "Believe me, if I didn't _need_ this, I wouldn't be going."

Cuddy does believe him, and she hopes he's able to find some comfort, or some peace of mind, in talking with Dickinson. So she looks at him with as much reassurance as she can muster, and says mock-seriously, "I promise not to kill 'im while you're gone. I'll wait 'til you get back so you can bear witness to my claim of self-defense."

Wilson manages a very small smile before going off to corral House into a set of vitals and taking his meds.


	7. Chapter 7: Admitting

CHAPTER SEVEN: Admitting

After several more stalling tactics from House, Wilson finally makes it to the car. He settles himself into the seat, and rests his head against the steering wheel for a moment. _The one thing that House didn't try is the only one that might've worked; all he had to say was that I was too tired to drive. Glad he didn't notice; wouldnt've been able to argue that one._ _And I really need to do this._

Wilson allows his eyes to close for a minute as he tries to gather the strength to fight off sleep. Finally, he lifts his head, takes a few deep breaths, and picks out one of House's irritating rock CDs to put in the player; that will definitely annoy him enough to prevent dozing off. With a last look at the apartment, he turns the key in the ignition and pulls out onto the roadway.

Inside the apartment, the object of Wilson's concern is currently engaged in yelling at Cuddy. "How could you let him go? He's dead on his feet. You couldn't _see_ that?" House glares at her.

"Why didn't _you_ say something to him?" she asks reasonably. "You noticed it too."

"I _tried_ to keep him here; he wasn't buying. He'd have listened to you!"

"House, you never once told him you were concerned about _him_. It was all about _you_, as I recall."

House looks momentarily confused. The anger is gone from his voice when he responds, and his tone is quiet. "We… don't work that way. He wouldn't know how to handle it; it'd make him uncomfortable."

Cuddy looks at House kindly. "Try it sometime," she says. "But first, try and figure out _who'd_ be made uncomfortable by your expressing a human emotion. Here's a hint," she says, smiling and shaking her head gently. "It isn't Wilson." Cuddy leaves House to ponder this while she straightens up the bedroom and assembles supplies for a dressing change on the PICC insertion site. She's just started gathering up dirty linens when House wheels himself resolutely to the bedroom door.

"Admit me," he announces.

"_What_?"

"You heard me. Admit me. Get me a bed, and one of those fashionable plastic ID bracelets. Rumor has it you might have a little pull at PPTH. Think you can arrange it?" House's face is dead serious, and his tone is firm.

Cuddy drops the sheets on the floor and sits on the edge of the bed. She doesn't answer right away; she's trying to translate House's pronouncement back into English. When she thinks she might know what's prompted it, she chooses her words carefully. "Do you think you might be getting worse?"

"No. Yes. Worse, _that's_ it. I need to be in a hospital; I'm too sick for all this… makeshift garbage. Will you take care of it? Now?"

Cuddy stands and takes the handles of the wheelchair. As she turns it and pushes it towards the living room, she says quietly, "We're going to talk about this."

"What's to talk about? My health insurance is paid up. You're my physician of record. I'm sick, rundown, in pain. I need constant monitoring. Sounds to me like I meet all the prerequisites."

They've arrived at the couch. Cuddy locks the wheels on the chair and indicates for House to transfer himself. He shakes his head. "Go make the call; they can change the dressing there," he says urgently. "Let's get going."

Cuddy looks sadly at him for a long moment, then turns and walks into the kitchen. When she returns, she's carrying a tray.

"Coffee?" House says with exasperation. "We don't need to observe any social niceties. Admit procedure takes a couple hours; been meaning to complain about that. We need to get started."

Cuddy, taking her time, sits on the couch and takes a long swallow of coffee. "Because you want to be admitted before Wilson gets back," she states.

House is quick to hide the surprise in his eyes. "Wilson? What does _he_ have to do with this? I'm a doctor too, ya know. I can figure out when someone needs to be hospitalized. Maybe that's the problem; maybe _he_ can't." House glares defiantly at Cuddy, and shakes his head impatiently when she tries to hand him a coffee mug.

Cuddy looks him straight in the eye. "Now you listen to me, Gregory House. Wilson is tired, yeah. He's not taking care of himself properly. And sometimes, he maybe even feels overwhelmed. But he's here because this is the _only_ place he wants to be. And he's tired because the most important thing in his life right now is making certain that he gives you the best possible care. And he's overwhelmed because… well… it's kind of a thankless task."

"Whaddaya mean?" House asks defensively. But while Cuddy's been speaking, he's been remembering. Wilson, giving him that first dose of morphine after throwing out his team. Fighting with Cuddy to keep him out of the unit. Risking his job, his medical license, to perform the pain procedure for House. And now, taking leave from his busy practice so House can recuperate in the privacy of his own home. Big things. A lot of big things, and even more little things, done with affection and patience. Done _willingly_. Done daily. All for an occasional, always grudging, 'thanks.'

Cuddy hasn't answered his question; she's watching his face as the memories play across it. And she has to swallow against the lump in her throat before she can speak. "You _won't_ be helping Wilson if you relieve him of your care. He won't understand. He'll be hurt. You're very worried about him--" Her hand shoots into the air; "Shut up, House! You can fool him, yeah. But how many times have you ever fooled me? And don't answer _that_, either. Just know that _this_ time, I'm not fooled. You're worried, and you think you can solve the problem by getting yourself admitted. You wanna solve the problem? Tell the man how you feel about all he's done. You don't even have to get mushy. Ask him how _he's_ doing once in a while. Tell 'im you enjoyed lunch. Let him pick an occasional TV show. He just needs to know that you _care._"

House is looking down, studying his hands. When he looks up at Cuddy, his face is abashed as he says, with sincere innocence, "He knows. I told him to ice his wrist last night. After I bruised it."

Cuddy doesn't know whether to laugh or cry as she looks into his honestly puzzled eyes. "House, you're… unique. And you know what? He _gets_ that. You're right; he knows. He does. That's why he's still here." She can't help herself; she goes to him and places a gentle kiss on his forehead. She _has_ to laugh then, at his confusion with the tender gesture, and soon he's laughing too.

"_Now_ you're trying to seduce me," he tells her. She winks at him as he finally accepts the mug of coffee.


	8. Chapter 8: Doors

CHAPTER EIGHT: Doors

"Wilson told me you didn't eat this morning; said you told him you'd eat when I got here. So what's your pleasure? A late breakfast? Or a sandwich?" Wilson had seemed worried about House's appetite again; Cuddy wants to make sure she gets him fed.

"Nothing right now, thanks," House says. He's still sitting stubbornly in the wheelchair; Cuddy had finally given up trying to get him to the couch, and had done his dressing change while he sat there, gazing contemplatively into space. Now, he's simply looking morose.

Cuddy sits on the couch. "What's the matter? You've gotta eat, you know. Wilson says the daytime TPN's gonna continue until you've gained twenty pounds. But I'll tell you what; you eat a good lunch, I'll talk him down to fifteen."

House doesn't even smile, and Cuddy notes that he's now rubbing gingerly at his left thigh. "That's okay," he tells her. "Not hungry, and he's right; I should gain the twenty pounds." Then, without a word of explanation, he wheels towards his bedroom. Cuddy, puzzled and concerned, follows him, and watches in surprise as he hoists himself from the chair onto the bed, lifting his legs carefully and settling uncomfortably into the pillows.

"Are you all right?" When she approaches him, he turns his back to her and simply nods his head—but she can tell from his posture that he's either tense, or in pain. She knows that the needle sticks from the EMG are bothering him, but can't tell if it's more than that. "House, talk to me. Please."

"Don't feel like talking. Gonna rest."

"I'll bring you some ice for your thigh, and something to drink. But you _know_ I'm gonna get in big trouble if you don't eat before Wilson gets home. Just a short rest, and then I'll make us lunch. Or maybe call out for pizza?" she asks, hoping to tempt his appetite.

House doesn't respond, and Cuddy walks around the bed so she can see his face. He's got his head half buried in a pillow, but she sees that his eyes are closed too tightly; they have the lines and the pallor around them that she's come to identify as pain that's spiraled over his meds. Cuddy shakes her head, and leaves to get the ice.

She's gone only a few minutes, but when she returns, the bedroom door is closing with a resolute click, and she hears the unsteady tap of the cane. When she tries to turn the knob, she isn't surprised to find it locked. "Hey!" she yells, trying to inject humor into her voice. "Wilson's gonna _kill _me if he finds out I left his precious toddler locked in the bathroom with all the cleaning fluids. And I'm not ready to die. So open up, huh?"

There's no answer, but there's no further sound of the cane, either; she knows he's listening. "C'mon, House, gimme a break!" Still light, humorous. It's an effort, but she doesn't know what else to do.

"It's not the bathroom, it's a bedroom. And Wilson's already childproofed it." House's answer carries no sound of humor, but at least he's talking.

Cuddy tries to cajole him a couple more times before she finally loses patience. "Okay, here's the deal. You have thirty seconds to limp over here and open this door. After that, I call the fire department and an ambulance. And I don't think even _you_ envisioned your admittance to the hospital quite that way. So open up. Now."

After fifteen seconds of utter silence, she finally hears the cane again. The lock clicks free, but the door remains closed as she hears him turn away and start back towards the bed. She opens the door carefully, and tries not to appear alarmed at the sight of him hunched over the cane in obvious pain. He's pale and sweating; he's stood too long, and she's afraid he's ready to pass out.

Cuddy steps over to him briskly, puts one arm around his waist, another under his elbow, and walks him, as quickly as she dares, back to the bed. As he sits, he allows a relieved sigh to escape.

Cuddy arranges the pillows, then helps him to slide his legs onto the bed and get settled again. His pulse and respirations are faster than they should be, but his color is quickly returning to normal.

"That was stupid." She looks at him sternly.

"What's stupid is I can't even have some privacy in my own home. My own bedroom." House's voice isn't angry, nor even annoyed. He simply states these things flatly, as unpleasant facts.

Cuddy sighs, and sits on the edge of the bed. "You told me yourself that you still need continual monitoring. I'm sorry, but it's true. Please try to understand. There's a reason sick people are called 'patients.' You know that. Recovery takes time. It takes _more_ time if you fight it. Now I'm gonna get that ice pack, and then I'm gonna let you rest." She stands to retrieve the ice from the table where she'd tossed it when she'd discovered the door locked. Before she leaves the room, she turns to look at House, who's watching her impassively. "I'm sorry, House. I really am." House just closes his eyes.

Cuddy looks in on House every fifteen minutes for the next hour. His back is to her, his position doesn't change; it seems he's sleeping. At her next check, she figures it's time to wake him, feed him, find out how he's _really _doing. So she starts calling his name softly as she enters the room; he turns towards her immediately.

"Did you get some sleep?" she asks.

"I rested. I thought. I made a decision."

Cuddy sits in the bedside chair. "Care to share?"

House nods his head, but says nothing; Cuddy waits patiently. Whatever this decision is, it appears to have brought House a measure of peace; while he still seems to be in some amount of acute pain, the tenseness is gone from his eyes and his posture. And when he begins to speak, he's calm and resolute.

"I'm gonna do everything you and Wilson tell me. Not gonna fight it. Except the morphine; that's not necessary. Whatever's wrong with the left leg, I feel like we're going after a mosquito with a cannon. I can ride out the pain—done it before. But no more morphine. Makes me sick, sleepy, depresses my appetite--"

"Takes away the pain," Cuddy interrupts forcefully. She's remembering the time Wilson had instigated a bet between her and House, and House had gone off his Vicodin for a week. Inside of twenty-four hours, she'd regretted her part in the deal. Every wince that'd crossed his face, every tremble of his fingers, and that horrible self-inflicted injury to his left hand, she'd felt responsible for. She'd found out later that Wilson felt the same way, when he'd told her '_I've caused enough damage already.'_ So she won't stand by this time, and watch House do it to himself again; this is one decision neither she nor Wilson will honor.

"The pain doesn't matter; getting better matters. Where am I if I start to depend on morphine? Nice, though, that you and Wilson have decided that you 'get' the difference between addiction and dependence. Finally."

Cuddy winces at that, and House allows himself a small, humorless smile. "And now," he continues, "you're trying to absolve yourself of your guilt by going overboard. I'm the one who's paying, though, and I've decided it could get too expensive. So." He looks Cuddy in the eye. "No more morphine. No." He breaks eye contact, rolls over in the bed so that his back is to her again. "Done thinking. Done deciding. _Not_ done resting. Appreciate it if you'd leave me to it."

Cuddy stands; House ignores her exaggerated sigh. _Better to let Wilson handle this one,_ she thinks. _He's obviously uncomfortable right now; if I get him agitated, it'll only get worse…. _She quietly leaves the room, gently closing the door behind her.


	9. Chapter 9: Demands

CHAPTER NINE: Demands

House and Wilson are talking. Well, it starts out as a talk, but House knows it's gonna degenerate quickly into the same old argument.

"You don't _want_ a healthy leg," Wilson tells him.

_Here we go again, _House thinks. _Wonder if I can divert him, or if I'm gonna have to listen to the whole speech again._

"If you've got a good life, you're healthy; you've got no reason to bitch, no reason to hate life," Wilson says. By now, House knows the lines by heart; he's amusing himself by repeating them in his mind along with Wilson.

_Here comes the part where I get to piss him off…. _House looks smugly at Wilson. "Well, here's the flaw in your argument: if I enjoy hating life, I don't _hate_ life; I _enjoy_ it." He watches Wilson's lips grow tight, and he smiles to himself.

"I didn't say it was _rational_," Wilson spits out. House wonders which analogy Wilson'll use this time to support his argument. This is the only part of the discussion which ever varies; that's a good thing—it keeps House from getting too bored and just tuning Wilson out.

"I had a patient last month who'd lived with cancer for three years. His prognosis was poor from the start, and he'd come to terms with dying. But there I was, telling him that his latest round of radiation had done the trick; we couldn't find any more cancer. And he wasn't happy about it, or even relieved. This unbelievable news _depressed _him. Not because he wanted to die, but because in all those years of illness, he'd defined himself by his disease. Suddenly, what made him _'him'_ wasn't real anymore. He was going to have to redefine who he was, and that frightened him."

_Okay, my turn; we're back to the script again. _"I don't define myself by my leg," House asserts. _This lecture's getting old. And dull. Maybe next time, I'll say I do define myself by my leg; that should break his rhythm._

"No, _you_ have taken it one step _further_. The only way you could come to terms with your disability was to somehow make it mean _nothing_. So you had to redefine _everything_. You've dismissed anything physical, anything not coldly, calculatingly intellectual."

_Here comes the part where I get angry and go off the rails; this is really getting tiresome_. "You don't know what you're talking about!" House shouts at Wilson. "You don't live with this every day; you don't lie in bed at night and pray the pain'll fade just long enough that you can fall asleep and escape it for a few hours!"

"I _do_ live with it every day!" Wilson yells back. "In case it's slipped your mind, _I'm_ the one you dump it all on, because everyone else was smart enough to walk away when it all started!"

As per the routine, House curls his right hand into a fist, and draws it back in preparation for the strike to Wilson's jaw, and—he awakens. Sweating and trembling, he repeats to himself, "A dream; just a dream." He forces his eyes to stay open, and—despite the sudden,sharp pain in his left leg—he whispers aloud, "No morphine." The drug would make him sleep, and if he avoids sleeping he can circumvent the nightmare.

But House is worried. This recurring nightmare has plagued him ever since the breakthrough pain had started several months ago. And since Sunday, when Wilson's treatment of the breakthroughs had proven successful, he's been having to live through the dream almost every time he sleeps. The first few days home, he'd tried to stop it by avoiding sleep, but his body had overruled that. So now he forces himself to awaken before he can carry out the threat to hit his best friend. He's getting closer to it each time, though.

House groans, and pulls his left leg up as the pain increases. It's not quite as sore from the EMG anymore; he's able to ease the spasm a little by massaging it. But the relief lasts only a few seconds, and he bites his lip to keep from crying out. If he makes any noise, Cuddy will hear him, and he suspects that she's planning to ignore his wishes on the morphine. He won't let that happen. He can't.

Cuddy is at her wit's end. She's frustrated and she's angry. House's behavior today is outside her frame of reference for the man; she's used to his circumventing the rules, ignoring the rules. She's even accepted that occasionally, he'll not only _bend_ a rule, he'll break it beyond all recognition. But a sad, serious, _reasonable_ House, well, that's just not someone she can handle. And if she's truthful with herself, she's gotta admit that 'frustrated' and 'angry' aren't nearly as foreign as her other two feelings—her fear and worry for House easily outweigh the first two emotions. It's time to bring in reinforcements.

Wilson's cellphone doesn't even finish the first full ring before he's on the line, asking in a voice fraught with anxiety, "What's the matter?"

Cuddy wishes she could laugh at his assumption, chide him for being such a pessimist. But she can't, so she dives right into what's been happening in his absence, starting with House's refusal to eat and continuing on through the locked door. When she reaches the part about the increased pain, coupled with House's anti-morphine speech, her rapid-fire words are brought to a sudden halt by an explosive expletive from Wilson. She's immediately glad she hadn't mentioned that House had tried to get himself admitted to the hospital; it's dawning on her that Wilson's exhausted, emotional, worried—and _driving_. Now, along with all the other problems, her outburst was possibly endangering Wilson. _What was I thinking? It was selfish and stupid to call him! This could've waited another hour_. So she tries to backtrack.

"Hey, listen. I was wrong to bother you with this nonsense right now. I was just… overreacting; it's been a long day, that's all. We can certainly hang in 'til you get here. Umm… how was your lunch?"

Wilson answers her in half-hearted monosyllables, but he seems calmer than he did a few moments ago, and she doesn't want to distract him any more than she's already done. And he says he's close to home, should be there quite soon, in fact. So she pretends that House is calling her to bring him a soda, and hangs up the phone. Then she sits, head in hands, and wishes she were the type of woman who could give in to tears. But she isn't. So she stands, takes a deep breath and a swallow of the cold coffee on the table next to her, and goes to check on House.

She hears it even before she's reached the door; it's the unmistakable sound of a human being in unutterable pain. But as she grabs for the doorknob, it ceases, and she hopes for a wild instant that she'd imagined it. When she sees House, that hope dies.

House is lying entangled in the sheets. He's soaked with sweat; his eyes are red rimmed as he stares at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge her presence. But she knows he's aware of it, and somehow she also knows he'd heard her in the hall and had willed himself into silence.

She goes quickly to him. As she nears the bed, she notes that he's holding his left leg at an unnatural angle; it looks almost as if he'd fallen and broken it. Cuddy speaks softly to him. "I'm getting the morphine; I'll be right back." Before he can protest, she leaves.

When she returns, he's looking daggers at her, and when she begins to approach, he says in a choked whisper, "Stop. Now." And as vulnerable as he is, somehow his words, his demeanor, force her to freeze.

As Cuddy stands there, her eyes locked with his, she's angry with herself—and with him. That a man so sick, so weak, could still command such power, could make her, even momentarily, ignore her own physician's instincts to provide him relief from his pain, puzzles her. But still she can't ignore the demanding plea. So she simply stands there, holding the syringe, watching him begin to writhe again on the bed.

Cuddy has no idea how long she's stood there; time has stopped during this wordless battle. She's dimly aware of the sound of a door, but she doesn't remove her eyes from the suffering man. So she's startled when an angry voice breaks the eerie silence.

"What the _hell_ is going on in here?" Wilson demands, as he takes in the awful tableau before him.

**A/N: **_As you've probably figured out, House's dream in this chapter is taken from his hallucination in the episode 'No Reason.' As this trilogy takes place prior to that episode, I guess I've created my own backstory, as to why he'd have hallucinated that particular conversation with Wilson in 'No Reason.' _mjf


	10. Chapter 10: Apologies

CHAPTER TEN: Apologies

One look at House, the pallor of his skin, the set of his face, the awkward position of his left leg, and Wilson _knows_ what's going on here. He takes the syringe from Cuddy's hand, glances at it, and shakes his head. "_No_," he whispers urgently. "_Ten_ milligrams."

Cuddy starts to argue, to tell him that House has already refused the 5mg dose, but something in Wilson's face stops her, and she leaves to draw up the larger dose.

Wilson approaches the bed ready to lay down the law—and he's not intending to be pleasant about it. But when he takes a good look at House's eyes, his resolve to be firm dissolves into sorrow. He sinks into the chair, and says gently, "What are you trying to do to yourself?"

"You're wrong," House whispers to him. "I _want_ a healthy leg. You're _wrong_." House is becoming agitated; his head moves restlessly on the pillows.

Wilson is confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I _don't_ define myself that way… wrong…." House is swept up in the pain again, and now Wilson sees something even more worrisome; House's attempts to ease the spasms in the left leg have been derailed. Now he's grabbing at the _right_ leg.

"_Cuddy_!" Wilson calls, as she reenters the room. "We've gotta do something; he's not making sense, and his brain's gonna undo everything we did to control his breakthroughs if we don't get a handle on his pain _now._" Cuddy hands him the syringe.

Wilson leans down in an attempt to focus House's attention on what he's saying, what he's doing. "House, listen to me. Can't let this go any further; we gotta do the morphine."

House is still out of it, still whispering "Wrong… you're wrong, Jimmy…."

"Okay, I'm wrong; I'm sorry, all right? Really sorry. Gonna make you feel better now. And I'm sorry I was wrong. Sorry." When House smiles and nods with satisfaction at the apology, Wilson says, "You'll feel better in a minute, and then we can talk," and injects the medication into the port. As he flushes it through the line, he wonders, peripherally, just what he'd apologized so emphatically _for._

Wilson hands the syringes to Cuddy, and takes House's wrist to begin monitoring his pulse. He frowns, and lays his other hand across House's forehead. "He feels feverish," he tells Cuddy.

She finds the tympanic thermometer they've been using at night to monitor his temperature without waking him; he's just barely cognizant now, and she doubts he'd be able to hold the oral thermometer. She places it gently in his ear canal, and when it beeps she looks at the readout. "A hundred point four," she tells Wilson. "Probably just the result of the spasms, the pain going on so long. If that's it, we'll know soon enough; it'll start coming down as he relaxes."

"How long has he been like this?" Wilson is careful to keep any accusation out of his voice, but Cuddy's response is regretful anyway.

"He's been in some degree of discomfort since you left. But as I told you on the phone, he was refusing the morphine. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until shortly before you arrived… sorry." She looks down guiltily.

"Cuddy, don't feel bad, please. You can't punish yourself for _his_ decisions. Been there, done that. I know how… formidable he can be, and I can't say I'd have handled it any differently."

Cuddy nods, and Wilson knows she's feeling responsible for having let the situation get out of hand. But he just doesn't have the energy to reassure her right now. "Do you know what he was talking about?" he asks her; the best he can do is change the subject. "What am I wrong about?"

"I have no idea. He didn't say anything about it to me, didn't seem upset about anything in particular—just generally unhappy."

Wilson looks at House, who's finally relaxed and sleeping. "When he wakes up, I guess I'd better find out," he says with a wry smile. "I could've apologized for anything from ordering Chinese instead of pizza to voting wrong in the last election. With House, ya never know what'll set him off…."

Cuddy and Wilson share a smile, and Cuddy really looks at Wilson for the first time since he arrived home. "Are you all right?" she asks. "You look like you've been through the wringer."

"I'm okay now. Had a little… incident, on the way home. Car took the worst of it."

"What happened?" she asks, alarmed.

"Between the rain, the traffic, and my own… inattention… I ran the car off the road. Wound up in a ditch. Managed to get it home, but just barely." Wilson isn't about to tell the exhausted, wrung-out friend, standing worriedly before him, that the 'incident' had occurred as a result of her call to him. His worry about what was happening at the apartment, combined with fatigue and his weakened left wrist, had caused him to lose control of the steering wheel just long enough to cause a _very_ close call.

But he's home now, and safe. And so is House. And Cuddy's forgetting her _own_ long day to go into mother-hen mode. For once, he appreciates it. He allows her to bring him ibuprofen and water, lets her examine his wrist. He even agrees to lie down for a while, after she promises not to leave House's side.

Cuddy's managed to find an old elastic bandage somewhere, and insists on wrapping Wilson's wrist. He submits gratefully to her ministrations, and has to admit, when she's done, that the extra support feels good. _Not just the support from an old Ace bandage, either. Just couldn't do this without her._ He gives Cuddy the best tired smile he can muster. "Thanks, Cuddy. For… all of it."

"No thanks necessary. Wait… no, just thought of how you can thank me; go get some rest now, and trust that I really _can_ handle things with House for a while, okay?"

Cuddy had been correct; House's temperature is returning to normal. His vital signs are good, and the pain's clearly under control for the time being; House is sleeping comfortably, and both legs are relaxed.

Wilson heads to the couch and settles in. When Cuddy hands him a cup of tea, he's surprised at how soothing the warm liquid is. He knows he has a lot of thinking to do—and a lot of talking to do, both with House _and_ with Cuddy. He also knows he's probably going to wake up sore, and that this nap is just a band-aid over a week's worth of fatigue. For right now, though, he decides to simply appreciate the comforts of the moment. He closes his eyes gratefully and gives in quickly to the unaccustomed luxury of sleep.


	11. Chapter 11: Awakening

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Awakening

Wilson is dimly aware, as he awakens, that he's been hearing the murmur of voices for the last few minutes. He sits up with a start, momentarily disoriented. As he becomes more alert, he realizes that it's almost completely dark in the living room now, and that the voices belong to Cuddy and House. _House!_

Wilson is up off the couch and on his way to the bedroom quickly, taking the time only to turn on a lamp and glance at his watch; it's 8:45pm.

As he approaches the bedroom door, he hears Cuddy say reassuringly, "Of course I'll stay; I was pretty much planning on it anyway."

"What's this about staying?" Wilson says to her as he enters. He's relieved to see that—while House is clearly still quite tired—he's alert and comfortable, sitting upright against the pillows.

House turns towards him. "I asked Cuddy to stay the night. We'll have a sleepover; _you_ sleep while Cuddy takes _over_!"

Wilson shakes his head. "Nuh-uh; you wore her out today. She needs to go home and get some rest. I've had a nap; I feel much better."

House is eyeing the bandage around Wilson's left wrist. "What happened?"

Wilson holds up his arm, glances dismissively at it. "This? Nothing at all. Cuddy's trying for her Girl Scout badge in first aid; I agreed to participate in the project." Wilson pointedly ignores the open-mouthed expression Cuddy's aimed in his direction.

"That's _not_ true!" Cuddy says to House. "His car skidded off the road in the rain, and now his wrist is not only bruised, it's probably sprained too. But not to worry; I examined it and determined he'll live."

After shooting a dirty look at Cuddy, Wilson watches House to see if the news of his little accident is going to upset him. House holds his own hand out, indicates that Wilson should show him his wrist.

Wilson goes to the bedside and reluctantly presents his wrist. House grasps his arm gently, well above the bandage, turning it and carefully palpating the bandaged area.

"Cuddy's right," House says after a thorough inspection's been completed to his satisfaction. "Probably not a fatal injury." He's looking appraisingly at Wilson now. "And it's your own fault for not being right-handed like 92 percent of the rest of the world. If you were, this'd qualify as just a minor inconvenience. Any other damage?" he asks.

Wilson is glad that House is able to comment sarcastically about the incident. And he sees the relief in House's eyes when he shakes his head. "No other damage to _me_, anyway. _Car's_ gonna need a little work, I'm afraid."

House looks away, says in a low voice, "Cars can be replaced. And this clinches it; Cuddy stays."

Wilson looks at Cuddy; in his opinion, she doesn't look much better than he does. But both she and House are wearing expressions that tell him the decision doesn't require his input; it's already been made.

"Tell ya what," Wilson says; as worn out as he is, he still isn't willing to relinquish control of the situation completely. "I'll agree to this unnecessary arrangement on the condition that we trade off care during the night, so that _both_ of us can get some rest."

"Cuddy's just gonna take care of the night stuff. _No one_ has to stay up," House says. "Thought we were past that."

"We were; we _are_," Wilson says. "But you've had a rough afternoon; just wanna make sure help's available tonight if you need it. _And_, since I've just had a nap, I take the first shift, okay?"

House looks as if he'd like to argue, so Cuddy answers quickly.

"Sounds fair," Cuddy says to Wilson. "Hey, no one's eaten yet; how 'bout I call for the pizza I promised House at lunch. Go get yourself a shower, and then I'll rewrap that wrist for you. By then, dinner'll be here. We'll eat—_all_ of us will eat," she says, looking pointedly at House. "And then, I'll help you get the kid settled for the night, and go catch a rest myself. Sound okay?"

"All except the 'kid' part," House interjects before Wilson can speak. "It's Saturday night; the kid wants to stay up and watch wrestling!"

Wilson knows how to circumvent that request without bringing anything medical into it. "But then Cuddy won't be able to rest," he points out.

House screws up his mouth with displeasure, and the expression does, indeed make him look like a kid. But he says, "All right. Tivo it for me then, will ya? John Cena's gonna try to be kickin' my boy Edge into next year—_can't_ miss that."

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "Yeah, we'll certainly Tivo that 'can't miss moment' for you. And when you get back to work, remind me to raise your salary above minimum wage so you can afford a set for the bedroom."

"Don't _want_ a TV in here; rumor has it that cuts down on other bedroom-type activities." He leers playfully at Cuddy.

"And you'd know this, _how_?" Cuddy asks dryly.

"Who, _me_? I don't; I _said_ it was just a rumor," House says. "But I _would_ know, if you'd just quit turning me down." He waggles his eyebrows at her; she smirks back and shakes her head.

"That's my cue to get the pizza ordered," she says. She turns to Wilson. "Go on and get cleaned up; that wrist has been wrapped pretty tightly for over four hours. It needs a break."

House is still feeling the effects of the morphine. "I'm just gonna close my eyes until dinner gets here," he says. "If no one minds."

"Great idea," Wilson says. "But this time, try to skip the bad dreams, will ya?"

House frowns. "What are you talking about?" He looks worried.

Wilson's sorry he brought it up; now is _not_ the time to discuss House's strange behavior and odd statements when Wilson had arrived home. "Nothing, forget I said anything," he tells House. "Guess while I was napping, I had a dream that _you_ had a nightmare. Very complex. _And_ boring. Tell ya later; it can be your bedtime story."

House nods, closes his eyes, and Wilson and Cuddy leave the room. But Wilson's mention of the word 'nightmare' has triggered something for House; he has a dim recollection of having said something to Wilson about it. So now, instead of resting, he tries to remember what had occurred, what he'd said. All he knows for certain is that he hopes the pizza arrives quickly; he really doesn't want to be alone with these thoughts for too long. His anxious eyes are open now; he'll stay awake.

As Cuddy finishes rewrapping Wilson's wrist, the pizza arrives, and Cuddy and Wilson return to the bedroom. They're surprised to find that House is awake, but before they can say anything to him, he says, "Hey, where are my wheels? I'm starving!"

The other two exchange a look; Cuddy's brought the pizza into the room—neither of them thinks it's a good idea for House to get up.

Cuddy thinks quickly. "This _is_ a sleepover, right? Well, as a former ten year old girl, I can tell you that no sleepover is complete without a pizza party in the bedroom!" She begins transferring slices of pizza to plates, and hands the first one to House.

House does seem to have a good appetite; he finishes the first slice quickly, and starts in on a second one. But after just a couple of bites, he puts it down with an odd expression on his face. "Anyone else feeling a little funny?" he asks. "Think there might be something wrong with the pizza—making me sick."

Wilson realizes immediately what's wrong. "It's not the pizza; it's almost 10:30, and you haven't taken your meds, have you?"

"I guess I forgot," House says. He looks almost ashamed; this is the first dose no one's reminded him to take, and he blew it.

"Don't worry about it," Wilson tells him. "I didn't draw the labs, either; just lucky that the rain must've held up the courier. Been a confusing night." He sets down his plate to collect the supplies for the blood draw. "Since you're nauseated, we'll do the Zofran IV this time, try and prevent any vomiting. Give it ten minutes or so; then you can take your super-Vic."

House looks doubtful, but says nothing. As Wilson hands the tubes to Cuddy for bagging and begins to administer the Zofran, the courier arrives, and Cuddy goes to the door. Once she's left the room, House mumbles, "Sorry."

Wilson looks up from flushing the port. "For what? We _all_ forgot."

"It was my responsibility; should've done it." House reaches over to the bedside table and picks up the pill bottles. "Maybe you'd better stay in charge of these a while longer," he says, and tries to hand them to Wilson.

"House, c'mon! You had 10mg of morphine a few hours ago; so it messed with your memory a little. Dinner was late, the courier just showed up; the whole schedule was off tonight."

"No excuse. Should've remembered. Just take 'em."

Wilson can tell that House won't argue about this; his face is set. _Maybe it was too soon; thought he'd feel more in control if he had some responsibility in his own care. Maybe he's too concerned with this left leg thing to want to worry about anything else…. _

Wilson reluctantly takes the proffered bottles, makes a mental note to let Cuddy know later. "Just lemme know when you want 'em back," he tells House, who simply nods and looks away; he appears to have lost all interest in the pills already.

House turns back to him. "How's the wrist?"

_That was a fast change of subject. _"Better, thanks. Swelling's already way down. Should be able to ditch the bandage by morning."

"What about the bruise?"

"Colorful, but already fading. It'll be okay." _Why all this solicitousness? _

"You sure?"

Wilson is puzzled by this uncharacteristic concern. "Of _course_ I'm sure. It's just a bruise. Spraining it didn't help matters, but two days from now it'll be back to normal. You know that; quit worrying."

"I'm not worrying, just don't want it to interfere with my--" House hears Cuddy's voice, telling him to show Wilson he cares, he's grateful, and he bites off the automatic selfish retort. "Okay. I'm… uh… worried. A little. Not every day a guy's best friend gets in an accident, right after he's had his wrist strangled by the guy. Just asking, is all."

Wilson stares at him. "As I said, it's okay. Not a big deal. Thanks for asking." _Who are you, and what have you done with House?_

Wilson is still shaking his head in bafflement as he hands House a dose of super-Vic. He's glad he's got the first shift tonight, while House is still awake; something's up. _And I need to find out what it is,_ he thinks as he heads out to the kitchen.


	12. Chapter 12: Voices

**A/N: **_To those who've previously read the contents of the voice file in 'AP,' I apologize for the repetition in this chapter. But I created it because it's vital to my own story, so it's gotta be here. Also, I'm sorry for the late post today; school is (mysteriously) closed; my wee one and I have had a day-long search for a plain red polo shirt which is apparently MANDATORY for his field trip tomorrow. Who'd have thunk one could waste six hours, and come up empty-handed? _mjf _(who's in **big **trouble with the kid)_

CHAPTER TWELVE: Voices

As Wilson is heading back to House's room, Cuddy's just finished setting up the Tivo to record the all-important wrestling match. She motions him back into the kitchen.

"I listened to the voice file of your session with Dickinson yesterday," she says. "And you're right; there are some things we need to talk about. I was hoping that after House gets to sleep, we might have a chance to go over some of it? What do you think?"

"I think that the whole point of my taking the first shift is so _you_ can get some rest," Wilson says. "If you wait for that insomniac to go down, the only one who'll get any real rest tonight will be him. And… I think there's something going on with him, anyway. I'm gonna try to talk to him about it. Don't know how far I'll get; I _do_ know it'll take a while. He lists 'dissembling and deflecting' as _hobbies_ on his curriculum vitae."

"Tell ya what," Cuddy says. "I'll rest until you're finished with him. If I fall asleep, wake me. We really need to discuss this, and soon. I'm confused about a few things."

Wilson concedes defeat; he'd known this was going to have to come up, sooner or later. "All right," he sighs. "I'll see what I can do."

When Wilson returns to the bedroom, House is waiting expectantly for him. "Meant to tell you, breakfast was really good this morning," House tells him.

Wilson raises his eyebrows. "Uh… House? I didn't _make_ breakfast this morning. And you didn't _eat_ breakfast this morning. Other than _those_ things, though, thanks for the… umm… compliment?"

"Meant _yesterday_ morning, anyway. The… uh… eggs? They were really good. And you did a _great_ job cleaning up the kitchen."

_Okay; that's it. Off the wall, even for House. _Wilson looks closely at his friend; he's wondering if he needs to locate the thermometer. Or a straitjacket. "Are you dying?" he asks House. "Am _I_ dying? What's with all the professions of appreciation all of a sudden?"

House scowls. "Just tryin' to tell you that it's… uh… rad. Really rad. What you've been doing. Everything. For… umm. Me."

Wilson tries very hard not to laugh. He almost succeeds in swallowing the laughter, but an amused smile must have found its way to his face.

"Are you laughing at me?" asks House, indignant. "Just trying to thank you, but if you don't want me to--"

Now the laughter escapes; Wilson can't help it. "Sorry, I'm just… punchy, I guess. You wanna thank me? Easy. Quit saying _rad,_ okay? No one over the age of forty—hell, no one over _thirty,_ should use that word. Stop, and we'll call it even." House is staring at him; Wilson just can't contain his laughter. "Really. Don't say it again, and we're even."

"I _like_ that word," House grumbles. "Makes me sound _hip_." This statement, of course, only feeds Wilson's amusement. It's contagious; soon, House is laughing too, _and_ relaxing. He's let Wilson know how he feels, _and_ he hasn't had to suffer through any Hallmark Card moments to do it. _And that's just… rad!_

They talk, and laugh, a few minutes more, and when House closes his eyes he's genuinely content and comfortable. Wilson's decided he won't bring up House's enigmatic statements earlier; why ruin the mood? Looks as if House's sleep will be restful and dreamless tonight. Now all Wilson has to do is deal with Cuddy—and the voice file. He gently closes House's door behind him as he goes out to face her. No sense disturbing House.

Cuddy's still awake, of course, and waiting for him. She's set her laptop up on the coffee table. Wilson eyes it, and groans inwardly. _Should've known I'd have to listen to it again. _He arranges his face into a neutral, pleasant expression and sits beside her on the couch.

"Did you talk to him?" Cuddy asks.

"Well, sort of. Solved the mystery of his… sudden concern for my well-being. Seems he's been trying to _thank_ me, tell me he appreciates what I'm doing." Wilson shakes his head in wonder; he's smiling again.

Cuddy's smiling too. "Oops. Should've warned you that was gonna happen, I guess. We had a little talk this morning. He was worried about you. Yelled at _me_ because you were so worn out! And in typical House fashion, he'd come up with the _perfect_ solution. He wanted to have himself admitted to the hospital." Cuddy watches Wilson's eyes widen in a mixture of dismay and amusement. "I figured that was a bit drastic, so I suggested that he try showing you a little gratitude instead. So, how'd it go?"

"It was… amusing. And touching, in a Twilight Zone sort of way. And we both lived through it," Wilson concludes, making a wry face.

"Glad to hear that; had my doubts." Cuddy watches Wilson lean his head back on the couch and rub his temples. "Listen, we don't have to do this tonight if you're too tired," she says, indicating the laptop.

"No, let's just get it done. You're right; it's important."

Cuddy starts the voice file, and for several minutes neither of them comments as they listen to Dickinson's questions, and Wilson's sometimes halting responses:

_Dickinson_: And how do _you_ feel about what occurred?

_Wilson_: Why does _that_ matter?

_Dickinson_: It matters because I don't think you'd be here if it hadn't affected _you_ in some significant way.

_Wilson_: The way if affected _me_ isn't important. What I did to _House_… that's what's important; that's why I'm here.

_Dickinson_: All right… then tell me what you did to Dr. House.

_Wilson_: I didn't… I allowed… I… I betrayed his trust. I let my own fear of his pain control how I reacted to it, to _him_. It was easier to fall back on prevailing medical beliefs, _wrong_ beliefs, than it was to watch him hurt. So I convinced myself that he _didn't_ hurt, that he was just… an addict. If the pain wasn't real, then I didn't need to worry about him, to… hurt for him. If I… if I'd allowed myself to believe that his pain was real, it would've… so I pulled back. I did what I had to do to protect _myself_. And he… he suffered for it….

_Dickinson_: And not wanting to watch someone we care about suffer is a natural reaction.

_Wilson_: But I'm not just his friend, I'm a _doctor_; I should've helped him. I didn't.

_Dickinson_: Yes, you did.

_Wilson_: _You don't get it!_ I watched him suffer for _months_ before I did anything! I _watched_ him, and I was angry with him, and I pitied him. I thought he was _weak_, and I convinced myself that I was _helping_ him by denying him pain relief. All I did was… I'm the… I'm responsible for his turning to morphine, for the breakthrough pain getting so out of hand that we had to….

Cuddy watches Wilson with eyes full of compassion as they both listen to his voice break on the recording, and wait through the silence that follows.

_Dickinson_: Let me get you some water. This is hard; take your time.

_Wilson_: Thanks. That's… better. I'm okay. Sorry, I didn't mean… this isn't supposed to be about me. I'm here for House; we need to focus on him.

_Dickinson_: Why did you decide to help him? When did you begin to believe that the pain was real?

_Wilson_: It was Friday. House is… well, he likes to complain, and he even makes a show of taking the Vicodin, and he's been known to… umm… well, actually, to _terrorize_ people with that cane. (_laughter_) But one thing he never allows himself to do is to _show_ his discomfort to others. Even with me; he'll gripe, he'll get… dramatic. But I've rarely seen evidence that the pain is real. Twice, maybe three times in the last six months. And he didn't have a choice. But Friday, he collapsed in front of his team. Dick, no exaggeration, House'd rather _die_ than show physical weakness in front of those kids! So, when they paged me, and I found him on the floor of his office, with the three of them there… I knew. I… just _knew_, then. Couldn't deny it anymore; didn't even try. I gave him that first dose of morphine without even questioning the necessity. His need was just so clear… can I have some more water?

_Dickinson_: Of course. So… Friday was the first time that the validity of his pain wasn't in question? The severity of it, I mean.

_Wilson_: Yes… uh, no. There were… two other incidents. I was at his apartment one evening a couple of months ago. He'd been at the piano for quite a while. I was getting ready to leave, and he stood up, and his leg began to spasm. I thought at first that… it wasn't _real_; I'd refused to refill his Vicodin prescription earlier. The refill would've been only three days early, but… I thought… well, I was trying, I guess, to establish some… boundaries… on the whole narcotics thing, and….

_Dickinson_: Go on.

_Wilson_: And then, I saw his eyes, and I _knew_ his pain was real. I went to him, and tried to get him to sit. He was angry, and he was scared, I think…. Finally, I had to force him to sit down. I checked his pulse, and it was over 100, and his respirations were rapid… shallow; he was suffering. He would've told me to leave at that point, if he'd been able to. I know that. But I knew he was in far too much pain to make any sort of protest, so I took advantage of that to help him. I massaged the leg until the spasm relaxed. He'd never have allowed that if he'd been in any shape to stop me. It… hurt, to know that he was suffering that much, and that I'd initially thought that he was trying to… trick me.

_Dickinson_: You felt guilty.

_Wilson_: Yeah… and sorry, too. But I couldn't make myself _say_ that to him. So after the spasm ended, I sat there that night, watched him while he slept. I wanted him to know I cared. But I couldn't say _those_ words, either. And every time he moaned during the night, it got a little harder for me to deny that he'd been truly suffering. But instead of trying to discuss it with him, figure out how I could _really_ help, I… took the coward's way out. Before I left the next morning, I just wrote out the scrip. And we never spoke of what had happened….

_Dickinson_: And the second incident?

_Wilson_: It was… even worse….

There's a very long pause at this point in the recording, and Wilson feels Cuddy's eyes on him as they sit through the silence. But he won't look at her. He's relieved when he hears Dick speak again.

_Dickinson_: James, I'm sorry, but I could really use a break here, and some coffee. Would it be okay with you if we took a few minutes, just maybe catch up with each other, relax a little, before you go into the second incident?

Cuddy reaches over and shuts off the recording. "I think a break is a good idea," she tells Wilson. "I'm going to make us some tea."

Wilson nods, and stands to go check on House and hang the next TPN bag. When he returns, Cuddy's back on the couch, and two mugs of tea are on the table. He sits and takes an appreciative sip from his mug. Then he meets Cuddy's eyes. "I'm sure you have questions."

"No, no questions at this point," Cuddy tells him. "But I _do_ have something to say, and I want you to really listen."

Wilson almost smiles; she's using her no-nonsense '_I'm the administrator; pay attention to what I'm saying_' voice, and underlying that voice, he also hears the compassionate mother hen.

"I let House down too," she says. "You don't have a corner on _that_ market. I gave the man a saline injection when he came to me asking, _begging_, for relief from his pain. I believed as you did, that he was an addict. And worse, I never insisted that he be fully evaluated. There's more than enough guilt to go around, so quit trying to hog all of it, okay?" She gives Wilson a small smile.

"I'm getting past that; I really am," he tells her. "But I appreciate your willingness to share it with me." He smiles back, and Cuddy resumes the recording while they sip their tea.

_Dickinson_: Okay, when we paused, you were going to tell me about the second time that you questioned your own belief that Dr. House was… uh… exaggerating his pain.

_Wilson_: I… this is hard. Do we have to discuss this one?

_Dickinson_: No; of course we don't. But you brought it up, and it's bothering you. It might help to—

_Wilson_: You're right. It's… yeah, it's important. I… it's just… I'm, uh… ashamed that this happened, I guess. It was just last month, and I'd stayed late at the hospital. Didn't know that House was still there, too. I was leaving, walking past his office, and a movement caught my eye. He'd drawn the blinds, but they weren't completely closed, and he had his back to me, so he didn't know I was there, and… he'd put his cane down, was trying to walk without it, and… he fell… twice. The second time, he just… stayed down. And he leaned his head against the edge of a chair, and he was… his eyes were closed, and there were… tears. He could've seen me then, if he'd looked, but he was so consumed by his pain, I don't think he was aware of his surroundings. And I… walked away. Just pretended it never happened. Called him later; he sounded okay. I was able to forget what I'd seen, until Friday. When I got the page about his collapse, as I was running to his office, that scene just kept… replaying itself, in my mind. And now I see it as another missed opportunity to prevent what happened Friday.

_Dickinson_: And you can't let it go.

_Wilson_: I don't _want_ to let it go. I want to _remember_ what my denial did to my best friend, to the man I think of as my brother. And now, he's just getting to the point of being able to trust me again, and maybe even to trust a friend of ours, our boss. But this morning, he just missed hypovolemic shock. And I mean by _minutes_. Know why? He didn't want me to know he's been nauseated; he was afraid I'd cut the dose on his pain meds, was afraid I'd insist on an anti-emetic. He's _trying_, I really think he is, but he's not there yet. We need to figure out a way to get 'im there, fast, before his distrust kills him!

Cuddy pauses the recording again. "Remember," she says gently to Wilson. "I did the same thing to him, after his surgery. I walked away from his suffering, from his emotions. I _understand_ why you did what you did that night. It doesn't make either of us right, but it _does_ confirm that we're human. And we're trying our hardest to make it up to him now; I believe that counts for something. Apparently, _he_ does, too."

Wilson smiles; Cuddy's right. Hard, insensitive, unfeeling House has forgiven, has trusted, has shown _gratitude_—in his own unique way, of course. Wilson nods at Cuddy, and she resumes play on the file.

Cuddy and Wilson both listen intently as Dickinson explains how—and why—House can't just _accept_ help, has to actually _fight_ it. While he listens, Wilson relives sitting in Dick's office, hearing this for the first time. He remembers the relief he'd felt, finding out that House's behavior wasn't really something House could control, and the overwhelming compassion he'd experienced for his friend when Dick confirmed, "He's literally _programmed _to fight you."

As they listen to Dick ask about House's support system, and Wilson's, Wilson sends Cuddy a look of grateful acknowledgement as his voice on the recording mentions only _her_ name. Cuddy smiles back at him, says warmly, "We really _are_ House's self-created family, aren't we?" And the voice file continues playing.

_Wilson_: I can handle this, Dick. It's... a relief to know that he's not just the selfish bastard the rest of the world sees. I know that the man I've described to you sounds... sad, and sick, not someone anyone would want to know, but there's so much more to him. He's brilliant, and funny, and... I dunno, it's just an _honor_ to be allowed into his world. Can't explain it; you'd have to meet him, and look past the walls he puts up. Maybe then you'd understand why he's really worth it. When he allowed me to put him through the pain control procedure, even after what's gone on, it was... it made me feel _good_, like I was somehow worthy of his friendship. After what my inaction had done _to_ him, now I've been able to do something _for_ him, to make things better, to actually ease a lot of his pain.

_Dickinson_: That's another thing we need to talk about, James—the loss of that extra pain. It's going to be part of the problem, believe it or not. You've said that he's integrated this pain into his personality, his behavior. That means that a big part of his perception of himself disappeared when the pain left. And whenever your self-view changes, there's a period of grieving attached, even if the event itself is a positive one. He's going to find it disconcerting, at the least, and deeply disturbing at the worst, to have such a large part of his identity gone. And that'll result in more anger, more lashing out, while he tries to come to terms with this shift in self-perception. It shouldn't last more than a month or so—but it has the potential to be a very nasty time.

Cuddy stops the recording at this point; when she looks at Wilson, her confusion is evident. "What happened when you had this conversation with him? You haven't mentioned it, and Dr. Dickinson makes it sound pretty important. Vital to his recovery. I'd really like to know how House reacted."

Wilson looks away. "You haven't heard about it because it hasn't happened. Initially, there didn't seem to be a need to discuss changes in self-perception with him because it didn't appear that his self-view had changed. And now…. Well, Dick brought it up again today, but with the _new_ pain problems, House can't really be grieving for the loss of the old ones, can he?"

Cuddy frowns. "It sounds like something that _has_ to be talked about. And you're avoiding it, aren't you?"

"Just don't wanna go borrowing trouble. When he's stronger, when we know what's going on with the left thigh, I'll talk with him. Promise."

Cuddy looks doubtful, but restarts the voice file.

_Wilson_: How can I help him through these changes?

_Dickinson_: I think you're already doing that for him, by instinct. Just be there for him. _Let_ him lash out at you; that'll be his way of working through his own confusion. The 'attacks' on you aren't really attacks; I think what he's doing is analyzing the changes in his life in a way that has, historically, made him feel safest. He sees you as a secure sounding board, and that's what he needs most right now. It'll only become a problem if he denies, to himself, that things have changed.

Cuddy pauses the file. "But he _hasn't_ really lashed out," she says.

"That's why it hasn't been necessary to talk to him about the changes; that's what I was trying to explain."

The voice file resumes, and they listen as Wilson tells Dick his fears that House may be suicidal. Cuddy is as relieved as Wilson had been to hear that House's risk of suicide isn't high, and that although they suspect he may have a plan, that plan may, in fact, be keeping him safer than he might otherwise be.

The session is ending. Cuddy smiles when Dickinson and Wilson mention a poker game with House, and says to Wilson, "I want in on _that_ one!"

Both Wilson and Cuddy grow somber when they listen to Dickinson ask, at the end of the session, what Wilson is getting out of this, and Wilson answers him quietly, "This time, I don't lose my brother."

The phrase echoes in both their minds as Cuddy shuts off the recording. She reaches out and gently squeezes Wilson's hand; she sees that he's lost in thought.

Wilson is remembering what he _hadn't_ said to Dick at the close of their session; '_and this time, the demons don't win'._ He closes his eyes at the memory, and makes a silent promise to House. _We've come this far; doesn't matter what this new demon is, doesn't matter how strong, or how frightening, it turns out to be. We'll face it together. And we'll win._


	13. Chapter 13: Dreams

**A/N: **_A dark little chapter… very dark. And number 13, at that. So, umm… Happy early Halloween:) _mjf

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Dreams

Wilson and Cuddy sit in silence for a few minutes after the voice file ends, each lost in their own thoughts. But when Wilson absentmindedly reaches for his mug of tea with his left hand, Cuddy sees him wince at lifting the cup.

She stands up, places her hands on her hips, and announces, "Change of plans. I'm taking the first watch. _You're_ taking a couple of Motrin and an ice pack. And a nice, long nap."

Wilson considers arguing, but it seems that everything that's happened today is conspiring to make movement impossible; his leaden body is aching to lie down, for just a few minutes. He allows Cuddy to shoot down his token protest, and thanks her, moments later, when she magically appears in front of him with the pills and the ice. _I didn't even see her leave the room; must really be out of it. Just a few minutes; rest my eyes, and I'll be fine._

But as soon as he lies down, Wilson's brain switches on. The phrases from the end of the voice file play in a continuous loop as Dick tells him, again and again and again, how important it is to have that conversation about self-perception with House. And Cuddy's voice choruses in, "Vital to his recovery… _vital_." A third insistent voice chimes in; it's House, repeating that strange, worrisome monologue from earlier this evening, about his leg. Wilson is dimly aware that this isn't really happening, tries to tell himself it's only his worry about House's nonsensical accusations.

As Wilson starts, against his will, to drift off, borne towards sleep on pure exhaustion, an odd scene opens in his mind.

_I want a healthy leg, _House continues to insist. _You're wrong about me, wrong about the pain, and the pills._

_You wouldn't know how to view yourself if you couldn't blame everything on the leg, _Wilson shoots back. _Your entire identity is wrapped up in it. Your perception of everything would have to change if your leg were healthy!_

_That's one change I'd be happy to make! _House tells him.

_No, you wouldn't. Told ya once that being miserable doesn't make you different—just makes you miserable. But I was wrong about one thing. You're sure as hell different. And you can blame that on your misery. But take away the pain, you lose the built-in excuse to be miserable, to ignore the rules the rest of us live by._

_But you took away my pain! _House laughs, without mirth. _And I'm still hurting. Same song, _he sneers; _different leg._

_Because you have to hurt, _Wilson hisses. _You need to hurt; it's who you are…._

Wilson twists on the couch, trying to escape his nightmare.

_---_

And in House's bedroom, the night demons are claiming a second victim, as House's recurring dream pulls him in from oblivion to argue with Wilson again.

_I don't define myself by my leg! _he tells Wilson. And, in the objective part of his brain, the part that's aware that this is a dream, he thinks to himself, _Here we go again_. He wonders if the nightmare will play out to its unthinkable conclusion _this_ time.

---

_You think my pain makes me who I am? _House asks, as Wilson's dream moves firmly into nightmare territory. All the details are coming sharply into focus. Wilson sees now that they're in House's office. He doesn't know how he's aware that the rest of the wing is deserted, he just knows that it is.

_My pain is me? That's it? _House's voice has a taunting quality. Wilson is suddenly frightened, and he doesn't know why.

---

In the bedroom, Cuddy watches House with growing concern. His sleep's become restless, and now he's starting to mumble. She can't make out the words, but the tone is at once angry, and pleading. Cuddy's wondering if she should awaken him, then thinks better of it; as long as he's not in _physical _discomfort, a troubled sleep is better than none at all, she reasons. And with the level of anxiety he'd exhibited today, she can't really be surprised that some of it might spill over into his dreams.

---

Wilson's lost the fight to escape his nightmare; his body is still now, as his subconscious mind pulls him further in the scene unfolding in House's office. His fear, which he's already pegged as irrational, continues to grow as House continues to taunt him. And then his fear finds focus.

_So, the leg is who I am; I am my pain. _Wilson shivers at the eerie sing-song quality of House's voice. House picks up the heavy marble pestle lying in the mortar on his desk, and begins to toy thoughtfully with it.

_Then it would follow that more pain would make a better me, don'tcha think? _House asks Wilson. And, never removing his eyes from Wilson's, House lifts the pestle and brings it down, hard, on his left thigh. And again.

Wilson watches in horrified fascination, unable to process what he's seeing. When he's finally able to move, he begins to run to House's side, but the eight feet between them is an interminable distance, and although he runs until he's out of breath, he never gets any closer.

It isn't until the pestle drops to the floor, and House is looking at him with a mocking, satisfied smile, that Wilson's steps actually close the distance between them. He sees at once that he's too late; House's left quadriceps is gone, beaten to an oozing pulp, the thigh a gaping, bloody crater.

Wilson's cries for help go unanswered, and he remembers that they're here alone. There's no one who can help House. No one but Wilson. It's up to Wilson, all of it. He reaches a tentative hand towards the wound, watches as the ruined muscle turns black and shrivels away at his touch; House begins to laugh.

_No! Noooo! _Wilson screams, and hears his own voice echo in his ears.

---

Cuddy is still watching House. His restlessness is increasing, and the indistinct mumbling's becoming clearer, the tone more threatening.

_I was wrong not to wake him, _she thinks. She stands to go to the bedside, but a low sound from the living room catches her attention. She turns her head, listens more closely as the quiet sound becomes louder, and then she hears Wilson shout "No!" The second time he shouts the word, the syllable is drawn out, in terror.

She starts to head to the living room as his voice rises again. But this time, it's joined by a second voice, echoing the same word. Cuddy watches in horror as House, eyes wide, bolts upright in his bed. Cuddy stands frozen in the doorway as the voices of the two men mingle and roar in her ears.


	14. Chapter 14: Touched

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Touched

Before Cuddy is forced to make the impossible decision of which man to go to, Wilson appears in front of her. He's breathing rapidly, as if he'd run a long distance, and there's fear in his eyes. He pushes her out of his way, not roughly, but urgently, and goes straight to House's bedside.

House, still sitting upright, is also struggling to catch his breath, but turns his head immediately toward Wilson as his friend approaches the bed. He's the first to speak. "Are you all right?"

Wilson swallows, takes in a breath before answering. "Yeah. Bad dream. Did I wake you?"

"How'd you know I had a nightmare?" House asks him.

Wilson's confused. "No, I meant _I _had a nightmare, and I… well, I shouted, and you're awake, so I thought…."

House frowns. "_I _shouted. Thought I woke _you."_

Cuddy's had enough of this macabre ping-pong match. She crosses the room and, as her adrenaline ebbs, collapses into the bedside chair. "You _both _yelled. Loudly." She lowers her own voice when she says, "The same word. At the same time." She rests her forehead in her hand as both men stare at each other, then turn to stare at her.

Cuddy raises her head to look at them. "You both said '_no.' _She focuses on House. "Didn't see what was happening with Wilson, but before you shouted, you'd become restless. You were mumbling, and just before you woke up, you said something about… stopping yourself from hitting Wilson."

"Yeah, I… know," House says. He looks at Wilson. "I guess… we need to talk," he says reluctantly.

"Yeah. We do," Wilson says, with even less enthusiasm. They both look at Cuddy.

"I'll just go… uh… do whatever one does at 1:00 in the morning, when one happens to be awake. You're both okay?"

They nod at her. After she leaves, Wilson takes her place in the chair. He watches House shift uncomfortably in bed, stands again and gets a couple of pillows. He goes to the bedside. "Let me help you get settled." _Ridiculous as it is, need to see for myself that the leg's all right._

Wilson moves the blankets back. "Mind if I just do a quick check on that left thigh?" he asks.

House looks at him oddly, but shakes his head, and undoes the tie on his scrub pants and lowers the left side so that Wilson can see the thigh.

"Punctures still bothering you?" Wilson asks him; he's noted that while the many tiny bruises are already beginning to fade, the muscle's currently so tight it almost feels knotted. _But it's there; the muscle's there, and it's whole. Just a stupid dream._

"A little. Nothing I can't live with." House sees Wilson frown as he gently palpates the muscle. "It's getting ready to spasm; that's why it's tight. Nothing to worry about; gettin' used to it."

Wilson raises the pant leg and begins to arrange the pillows to support the leg while House tries to find the most comfortable position to ride out the spasm.

"You shouldn't _have_ to get used to it," Wilson says. "We need to talk about that, too. You're in pain, we treat the pain. You know as well as I do that we're monitoring your doses, and that allowing the pain to go untreated could cause problems with the _right_ thigh again. Tell ya what. The muscle needs another twenty-four hours to recover from the trauma of the EMG, right?"

House nods, cautiously, and wonders how he can _know_ he's going to lose an argument before the argument even starts.

"So here's the deal. You allow the morphine for another day, and then we'll reassess the situation. I'll use the lowest possible doses, and I'll give you a fair chance to ride out the spasm first. But I won't watch you suffer; not an option. Got it?"

_I was right; Wilson had it won before he started it. Worst part is, he knows it. _"Guess that's… almost fair. But I want it on record that I--" House can't help it; he gasps, and his body curls itself around the left leg. Even through the haze of pain, he's able to appreciate the irony of the lousy timing.

Wilson watches silently. He doesn't like the cruelty of having to wait for House to cry 'uncle' against the vicious pain, and he wonders if he's given House too much control over the situation.

Just as Wilson's decided to give the morphine now, and deal with the consequences later, House nods his head at him and says, biting off each word, "Can't. Take. The pain."

Wilson quickly prepares the syringe. "It's okay," he says calmly as he pushes the medication. "We'll know soon what's causing this, and we'll treat it. Things'll get straightened out, you'll see. You made the right decision." He finishes pushing the med, disposes of the syringe, and sits down. As he circles House's wrist with his fingers and silently counts the rise and fall of House's chest, he watches first the leg, and then the patient, begin to relax.

After a couple of minutes, House says quietly, "Ready to have that talk now. You?"

Wilson notes that House now appears willing, even anxious, to share whatever his frightening adventure was. Wilson, however, would prefer not to tell House about his own nightmare, at least not while he himself is still suffering its aftereffects. And, now that the crisis is over, Wilson notices a throbbing in his injured wrist; he senses that it's been going on for quite a while. "Can you hold on a minute while I go get some ice?" he asks House, holding up the wrist in explanation.

"Sure. Uh… take some more ibuprofen too. Bandage too tight, maybe?"

Wilson, remembering House's awkward attempts at gratitude and concern, smiles to himself as he offers his wrist for examination. House unwraps the elastic brace carefully. He checks out the wrist thoughtfully, and pronounces it healing. Then he slowly, clumsily, _gently_ rewraps it and releases it back to its stunned owner.

"Never was too good at those things," House says, indicating the bandage. "But I think that's okay."

"It's… better than okay. You were right; must've been too tight. Feels _much_ better; thanks." The sudden lump in Wilson's throat makes further speech impossible, so he just smiles at House and leaves to get the ice.

When he enters the kitchen, he's surprised to find Cuddy there, industriously cleaning out a cabinet.

"Old family tradition," Cuddy explains. "When I was little, my mother was a terrible insomniac. She told me once that if you _have_ to be up in the middle of the night, might as well have something to show for it in the morning. Swore she did her best cleaning at 2:00am."

Wilson rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and opens the freezer door. And Cuddy gets a good look at his sloppily wrapped wrist. "What'd you do, rewrap that with your _teeth_?" she asks.

Wilson looks down at the bandage and smiles. "House thought it might be too tight, rewrapped it for me," he tells her quietly.

Cuddy's already holding the wrist, prepared to wrap it properly. At this astounding piece of news, however, she instead looks it over carefully, and says, "Well, won't win any awards for neatness, but it's providing adequate support. So let's just leave the artist's work undisturbed, shall we?"

"Yeah… thanks." Wilson looks at the bandage, and then at her. "Pretty amazing, huh?"

"You're _both_ pretty amazing," Cuddy says. "Heard just a bit of you talking him into the morphine; impressive. Now, you wanna tell me about those nightmares?"

"We're just getting ready to get to those. Need to get back in there, but first I'd better take some ibuprofen. Dr. House's orders."

Cuddy smiles and hands him the bottle.


	15. Chapter 15: Perceptions

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Perceptions

Wilson enters the bedroom with an air of resignation; he's still not comfortable with the idea of sharing his nightmare with House. But as he nears the bedside, he sees that he's gotten an unexpected reprieve; House has fallen asleep.

Wilson is glad that House has been able to return to sleep so quickly, gladder still that telling House about his dream can wait. On the other hand, he's curious about what _House_ has to say; what was going on in his friend's mind that would cause him to speak aloud about hitting Wilson? Well, that would have to wait too. He leaves the room quietly, and returns to the kitchen, where Cuddy is still hard at work.

"Will you go lie down now?" he asks her. "Trust me, don't much feel like sleeping after that experience."

Cuddy sits. "What experience? What'd you dream about? Might help to talk it out."

After considering it for a minute, Wilson decides that Cuddy might be right; sharing the nightmare might help to dilute the horrifying details of having to watch House destroy his leg, might give the pictures in his mind less power.

He starts out hesitantly. When he reaches the part when House picked up the pestle, Cuddy sees his eyes go unfocused, and she knows he's back there, reliving the awful scene. She reaches across the table and takes his hand. He seems unaware of it as he continues speaking, but as he concludes the story, she realizes that he's now gripping her hand tightly. When he turns his head to look at her, the dregs of his terror and helplessness are still in his eyes.

Cuddy chooses her next words very carefully. "I'd like it if you'd call Dr. Dickinson, discuss this with him. And… I want to speak with him when you're finished. Please."

Wilson closes his eyes briefly, and then nods. "I'll do that first thing in the morning."

"No," Cuddy says gently. "You'll do it now," she says, as she hands him the phone. "You said he told you to call day or night, and I think this warrants taking him up on that. You'll do it now," she repeats.

Wilson knows she's right. "Will you stay?" he asks her. "Save me from having to repeat the conversation to you later," he says, as he pulls out Dick's card and punches the number in.

"Of course, if you want me to," Cuddy says.

Dickinson answers on the fifth ring; Wilson can tell immediately that he's awakened him. But Dick's voice is warm; he sounds happy to hear from Wilson, even in the middle of the night. Wilson quickly relaxes into the conversation as he relates the events of the evening, and by the time he's done giving the details, he admits to himself that he's starting to feel better.

"Sounds as if your concern for that left leg goes pretty deep," Dickinson tells him. "Are you worried that Dr. House might be exaggerating the pain, or using these new problems to escape dealing with the old ones?"

"No!" Wilson answers, shocked. He's a little angry that Dick would even suggest such things. "I'm absolutely _certain_ there's no exaggeration; he may actually be underplaying it. And I've already told you, House has been responding very well to the loss of the breakthrough pain."

"I only ask because your dream indicates that you may have some concerns that Dr. House is capable of harming himself physically, or that he might indeed be having problems with a different perception of himself. James, I'm gonna suggest to you again that you stop putting off that conversation with him. And I'm concerned about you, too. Your nightmare, being alone and unable to call for help during the ordeal… it indicates the degree of responsibility you feel towards his health, his recovery."

"I'll talk to him. I'm realizing the importance of that conversation. Maybe I shouldn't have put it off; needs to be done, doesn't it? Not just yet, though. I know it's important; time's just not right, with this new stuff going on. And I'm fine, Dick. Nothing a couple of nights' sleep won't cure. Once we have a diagnosis on the leg, things should settle down around here; I just have to hang in. But I appreciate your take on all this; sorry I woke you. Talking with you really seems to help."

Cuddy can tell that Wilson is getting ready to wrap up the conversation, so she indicates that she'd like the phone. Wilson quirks his mouth in a '_not necessary_' gesture, but says to Dick, "My boss, Lisa Cuddy, is here with me, Dick. She'd like to speak with you."

When Dickinson asks him for the standard permissions, Wilson looks over at Cuddy, and doesn't hesitate in his answer. "She's listened to the voice file, and she's heard my end of the conversation tonight. You've got my permission to speak openly with her." Then he hands the phone to Cuddy, and listens as she describes her concerns.

Cuddy doesn't tell Dick anything that surprises Wilson, but Wilson feels she's far too concerned about his state of mind. And he's sorry that she's apparently so worried about him, along with everything else she has to worry about. But when she begins to discuss Wilson's lack of sleep and reluctance to take a break from caring for House, Wilson starts shaking his head at her. She very deliberately turns her back to him, and continues speaking. Now she's asking Dick's opinion about a mild tranquilizer—and Wilson's certain she isn't asking for House.

"Not necessary," Wilson interrupts Cuddy. "Not interested." Cuddy ignores him, thanks Dick for his time and his opinions, and then hangs up the phone. Then she turns to regard Wilson.

"Here's how it's gonna be," Cuddy says, looking Wilson right in the eye. "Lorazepam, 0.5 milligrams during the day, as necessary—but at least one dose. And one milligram at night." As Wilson opens his mouth to protest, Cuddy says forcefully, "Don't even _think_ of trying to interrupt me."

Wilson sighs, and sits down to hear her out.

"You need to sleep, and your stress levels are dangerously high. So you'll do this. If not, I'll have no choice but to tell House what all this is doing to you."

Wilson's pretty certain she's bluffing—but not _completely_ certain. "You wouldn't risk upsetting him like that," he says, tentatively.

"Don't bet on it," Cuddy responds. "At those doses, the Ativan won't knock you out, won't keep you from hearing House if he needs you. It'll just… take the edge off, make all this a little easier. And that'll enable you to go on being there for House."

"You'd really tell him if I refuse?"

"In a heartbeat." Cuddy's eyes are determined, and Wilson's starting to think this isn't a bluff.

Wilson begins to feel trapped, and anxious at feeling out of control, and he has a sudden rush of empathy for House. _This must be how he feels when we don't consult him or— worse—just blatantly ignore what he wants. Think I might be a little more sensitive in the future. For now, House, I'm with ya, buddy; this stinks!_

Wilson's eyes meet Cuddy's; she can clearly read the resentment in his. "You aren't playing fair," Wilson tells her almost coldly. "You've left me no choice but to agree, and you know it. You win." He breaks eye contact. "I'm gonna go check on him, maybe sit there a while." He leaves the kitchen before Cuddy can respond.

In House's room, Wilson's pleased to see that House remains asleep, and looks comfortable. Wilson lowers himself wearily into the chair, and whispers to the sleeping man, "Sorry about the morphine thing. Just had the tables turned on me; it's not fun, is it? But I did what I had to do; guess that's how Cuddy feels too. Sure, I'll forgive her—in a little while. Hope you'll forgive _me_, too." He rests his head against the back of the chair, and allows himself to drift off. This time, his sleep is dreamless.


	16. Chapter 16: Whispers

**A/N:**_ A sweet little interlude, before we get to the discussion in chapter 17. Hey, I needed the break, you kids needed the break, poor House, Wilson, and Cuddy needed the break! Besides, 'interlude' is a much prettier word than 'filler,' no? _mjf :)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Whispers

When Cuddy quietly enters House's room an hour later, thinking that Wilson's had enough time to cool off, what she sees makes her smile.

House remains asleep. His face is relaxed, and both legs rest at normal angles to his body; there's no sign of the restlessness that's lately been a regular part of his sleep pattern.

Wilson's asleep too. He's slouched down in the chair, and he's got his legs up on the bed, and somehow he looks comfortable. Cuddy thinks this is probably the first time she's seen him sleep recently that he _doesn't_ look as if he's gonna jump up and run to House's side in the next second. _And why should he? _she thinks. _He's already where he needs to be; he can finally let himself relax._

Cuddy gently lifts Wilson's head and slips a pillow under it, then does the same with his left arm before she covers him with a blanket. Wilson doesn't even stir.

It's not quite time to hang a new bag of TPN yet, but Cuddy does it anyway; she doesn't want the sound of the pump to wake the men. She cautiously takes a set of vitals on House, but he's sleeping so soundly that he's undisturbed even by this.

She makes certain that the blinds are tightly closed against the dawn's light; it's after five o'clock, the sun'll be coming up soon. And Cuddy plans to allow these two to sleep as long as they can; it's the best thing for both of them right now. She leaves as quietly as she'd entered.

Cuddy returns to the kitchen, where she pours herself a fresh cup of coffee, then sits to jot down the latest set of vital signs. When she's finished writing the numbers, she closes the makeshift chart in front of her and looks down at it. It's already almost an inch thick, and it details only nine days in the unique treatment of a _very_ unique patient.

_What it doesn't say, _Cuddy thinks to herself, _is how all this has changed him. And… how it's changed us. There's no form in there listing next of kin, but if there were, the names on it would be ours; that stubborn, contrary, brilliant man has turned the three of us into a family, somehow. Brothers indeed, those two. Not certain if I'm the big sister, or the mom. Mom, probably; they do seem to need the supervision! _She smiles fondly, remembering some of the pranks they've pulled. _Anyway, doesn't matter; I fit here. They've welcomed me in. Wilson first; took House a lot longer to realize I really wanted to help. And somewhere along the line, he's started to learn how to trust again. Still a little rusty in the 'care and concern' department, but if anyone can make him comfortable with that, it's Wilson. He's the one person on the planet who House can't intimidate, the one person House isn't afraid to show his human side to. Well… maybe House is starting to come around with me, too. _She allows herself a smile at that thought. "_And yes, I'm proud of that,_"she whispers aloud.

A noise from the direction of the bedroom catches her attention, and she goes to see what it is. She finds a drowsy Wilson helping an equally drowsy House down the hall to the bathroom. Wilson looks at her, puts a finger to his lips, and whispers, "_Shh… we're still sleeping_." Then he hands House his cane and watches him safely ambulate into the bathroom before leaning against the wall and closing his eyes.

"_I wouldn't think of waking you_," Cuddy whispers back, then just stands and watches until House comes out of the bathroom and hands the cane back to Wilson. Wilson tucks it under his arm, whispers, "_I gotcha_" to House, and—disregarding his own sprained wrist—supports House just enough to permit him to walk the short distance safely, _almost_ on his own.

Cuddy follows them down the hall and into the bedroom. She puts her own finger to her lips when Wilson starts to speak, then she points to his abandoned chair. He smiles and shakes his head at her, but obediently burrows back into the chair while Cuddy resettles House comfortably and reattaches the TPN to the heplock. Then she checks on Wilson to make sure he's got the left arm elevated. He has, and he's already fallen back to sleep. Cuddy picks up the fallen blanket and covers him.

As she turns to leave, House, in that gentle state of half-sleep which turns even the most jaded adult into an innocent child, gives her an unguarded smile. He whispers, "_Thanks_," closes his eyes, and sighs into sleep.

As Cuddy closes the door silently behind her, she whispers back, to both of them, "_You are so very welcome…."_


	17. Chapter 17: Truth

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Truth

Shortly after 11:00am, Wilson awakens to the scents of fresh coffee and bacon. House is still sleeping, so Wilson slips quietly out of the room, leaving the door ajar so they'll hear him if he calls.

He heads toward the wonderful smells, and finds Cuddy in the kitchen, mixing up pancake batter—and humming. She's dressed in clean clothing—Wilson tries to remember if he's ever seen her in jeans before—and must have also taken a shower; her hair is in damp ringlets around her face.

"How can you possibly look that good on no sleep?" he asks her, smiling. He himself actually feels more rested than he's felt since the first night home.

She smiles back. "By my calculations, I managed to get almost four hours; that's more than _you've_ been getting some nights. Oh, and that reminds me--" She retrieves an amber pill bottle from her purse. It has Wilson's name on the label. "These are the 1mg Ativan I brought that first night. Next trip over, I'll bring some 0.5 tabs, but in the meantime you can halve one of these and get started."

Wilson makes a face at her, groans and takes the bottle. "I was hoping you'd forget about that. I'll do it later; I just got up, I feel plenty rested."

Cuddy fixes him with a no-nonsense glare as her hands inevitably find their way to her hips. She stares him down until, finally, he sighs in resignation, uncaps the bottle and fishes out a pill.

Wilson cuts the pill in half and tosses the unneeded portion back into the bottle. He puts the other half in his mouth, cups his hand under the faucet, and swallows the pill, gulping water from his hand. Then he rolls his eyes at Cuddy. "Happy now?"

Cuddy's been watching the whole thing with interest. Now she asks, "Aren't _either_ of you capable of swallowing pills in the traditional way? You know, a cup, eight ounces of water, _that_ whole thing."

"_Real_ men swallow 'em dry," House says, entering on his cane. The IV pole is providing support on his left side; he appears to be walking well. "Ibuprofen? Wrist still hurting?"

A quick glance to his left shows Wilson that Cuddy's leaning against the counter where he'd left the bottle of lorazepam; it's not in view. He doesn't answer House's first question. "Just a little achy today; it's doing fine. Uh… where's your chair?"

"It's not _my_ chair, and I suppose it's wherever you two left it last night when you conspired to make me eat my supper in bed."

"It's in the living room," Cuddy says. "Why don't you gentlemen go on in there, and I'll get breakfast together."

Wilson watches House execute the turn without difficulty, watches his gait as he follows him to the living room. "You're doing pretty well, there. How's the left leg feeling?"

"It was starting to tighten up; think that's what woke me. Thought I'd try and walk it out," House says as he lowers himself to the couch.

Wilson's aghast. "You thought it might spasm and you got up by yourself anyway? _Damn_ it, House! We thought you were sleeping. What if it _had _spasmed?" Wilson doesn't know if he's angry, or scared. He _does_ know he's upset; he's pacing and shouting and gesturing. "Don't _ever_ do that again! What the _hell _were you thinking?"

Wilson's aware that he's overreacting, and some part of him is already sorry. But he can't stop himself. "If you'd fallen, we might not have known. You _enjoying_ this, buddy? A little game for you? '_Let's see what I can do today to freak 'em out!' _That it?" He glares at House. "I said, _is that it?" _His tone is demanding.

When House doesn't answer, Wilson _really_ takes a good look at his face; he's immediately ashamed of himself and his uncontrolled outburst. House doesn't look angry, or hurt, nor even defensive; he just looks sad, even… concerned. _What's the matter with me? _Wilson thinks. _I blew up at Cuddy yesterday, and now House._

Wilson turns away from House's sadness—and finds himself looking straight at Cuddy. Apparently, she'd heard the commotion, and come out to check. And now, she's looking at him with the same mixture of concern and sadness that he sees in House's face; she's clearly heard most—if not all—of his tirade. Wilson looks from Cuddy to House, and he makes a decision; he hopes it's the right one.

"Uh… gimme a minute. Please?" he says to both of them. They nod, wordlessly, and he goes into the kitchen. As soon as he's out of the room, he can hear them resume speaking. Their voices are low and worried—and he doesn't blame them.

When Wilson returns, they immediately stop talking and turn to him. Cuddy's surprised to see that he's holding the Ativan bottle. House merely looks curious. Wilson takes a deep breath, says to Cuddy, "You were right." He indicates the bottle he's holding. "I apologize; shouldn't have doubted you. That first one's starting to kick in; gotta admit, it's a little easier to think now. Uhh… thanks for knowing what I needed when I… uh… didn't."

Cuddy regards him kindly. "Not a problem. Believe it or not, I really _do_ understand. I just want to help." Her tone is warm, forgiving—_accepting_.

_That was easier than I thought_, Wilson thinks. _But I haven't hurt her the way I've hurt House. I owe him so much more than just an apology. And I can't blame 'im if he doesn't understand, doesn't want to forgive me. _Now he turns to House.

"Need to talk to you, too, if you're willing to hear me out," Wilson says to him.

Cuddy says, "I'm gonna get back to fixing breakfast—which is gonna be lunch if we don't get to it soon."

"No, you can stay," Wilson says to her. "It's a… family matter. You have every right to be here."

Cuddy shakes her head. "This is between the two of you. You can handle it," she says, smiling reassuringly at Wilson. "And you know where I am if you need me." And she leaves the two men to face each other.

Wilson walks over to the couch and hands the pill bottle to House, who studies the label a moment before handing it back.

"No snide comments?" Wilson asks. He realizes that he's nervous about this talk; he's tossing the bottle hand to hand, and he's not meeting House's eyes. He sighs and sets the bottle down, tries to look at House.

"Sit down," House directs, then waits patiently for Wilson to comply. Finally, Wilson sits uncomfortably on the edge of the couch and turns to face his friend.

"First this," he says, indicating the medication. "That nightmare I had last night. I called Dickinson, and he and Cuddy decided it would be a good idea, for a while. I… uh… disagreed. And then Cuddy threatened to tell you that I'm not handling all this well, and I… felt… trapped. She knew I'd have to agree; wouldn't risk upsetting you. And even though I knew she was right, I didn't like being… coerced. Realized afterwards, that's what I've been doing to you all along. Like the morphine last night; it wasn't fair." Now he looks House in the eye. "I'm sorry. I was wrong to do that to you."

House studies him thoughtfully before responding. "Was Cuddy wrong to do it to _you_?"

"No. Wouldnt've… cooperated… any other way, I'm afraid." Wilson looks down, ruefully.

"Yet now you're telling me about it. So you've either gotten over your fear of upsetting me, or you've decided I can handle it. Which?"

"I don't really know," Wilson answers earnestly. "Guess I'm still afraid it'll upset you, but… I've decided it's not right to just _expect_ you to trust me blindly, and not be willing to do the same for you. So I'm gonna have to believe that _you'll_ still believe I'm capable of caring for you, and making the right decisions about your treatment."

House carefully props both legs up on the coffee table and leans back on the couch, pillowing his head on his interlaced fingers. "Last night? _My _nightmare? It was a rerun. Been seein' it a lot, lately. You tell me I've got my identity wrapped up in the leg, the pain. That I've redefined everything. You keep hammering away about that. By the end of it, I'm ready to punch you out. Always wake up before I hit you, though." House sighs. "Last night, just barely made it," he tells the ceiling.

"At least _yours_ is understandable," Wilson says. "You had to work pretty hard to convince me about the pain; stands to reason you'd still have some doubts. I _do_ believe you, though. Just sorry it took me so long, sorry there's still some question in your mind."

"Gettin' over it. _Want_ to get over it. Can't trust you, who _can _I trust?" House has asked this question of a particularly fascinating spot on the ceiling; Wilson understands.

"Anyway," he says to House, "I'm, uh… not ready to tell you about the rest of my little experience with the night demons yet. I know that's not fair, but… well, I still haven't processed it myself. When I _am_ ready, I'll let you know, okay?"

House nods, and Wilson thinks for a moment that he's going to leave it alone. But then House says, "Must've been pretty bad if it made you call the shrink," and Wilson can hear the fascinated curiosity in the statement.

"It was… a frightening experience. Upsetting," he says honestly. "And I… I'm asking you to respect that I can't go into it, not just yet. But… part of it was… feeling like I was the _only_ one available to help you, to… save you. That's not true, I know, but… well, Cuddy and Dickinson think I've, uh… been putting too much pressure on myself, think I could use a little chemical help for a while."

"They're right," House says, without hesitation. Now he looks at Wilson. "Trust your doctors. Don't give 'em a rough time. Just makes it harder on 'em. Look what I've done to _my_ doctor," he says, a small smile on his face as he indicates the tranquilizers.

"And one more thing about those pills," House continues; now his tone is serious. "You be careful with 'em; they're addictive, ya know. 'Specially if you're just takin' them for fun."

Wilson turns to stare, open-mouthed, at House—and then he sees the wry smile, and the mischievous twinkle in his eye, _and_ the forgiveness. And Wilson smiles back, and nods in acknowledgement of the treacherous waters they've just crossed together.

Cuddy picks this moment to enter with the breakfast tray, and looking at the smile on her face—relieved and triumphant—both men know that her uncanny timing is no coincidence, as the three of them dig into their delayed breakfast. And even the arrival of the lab courier, the resulting hurried blood draw, _and_ House's complaints about the lack of macadamia nuts in his pancakes, are all forgotten about as they simply enjoy each other's company.


	18. Chapter 18: Chances

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Chances

When they've almost finished their breakfast, Cuddy sets down her plate. "Today is Sunday," she announces. "So this evening, I'll be receiving a call from House, letting me know that Wilson's come down with the 'flu, and he needs IV hydration, so he's staying here. We'll give it to you first," she says, turning to Wilson, "so that when you guys return to work, House'll have just gotten over it. That'll explain the weight loss, and any lack of energy, or whatnot."

"There's a flaw in your plan," House asserts. "A little 'flu won't keep Cameron and her version of chicken soup away from here."

Cuddy smiles. "Oh yeah, it will. After I point out that you both got your 'flu shots, and appear to be suffering from the hybrid version, _and_ issue orders that no one's to come within a mile of here, they'll get the message. I'm even planning to tell 'em that if you weren't both doctors, Wilson would have to be hospitalized. And then, as he makes his recovery, it'll be your turn. We can make _yours_ even more dramatic. What with the hydrocodone suppressing your cough reflex, you're at high risk for influenza pneumonia. That could buy us a few extra days, if we need 'em." It's clear that Cuddy's quite pleased with her plan.

Wilson is impressed. "That's perfect! The hybrid version's been taking people outta the game for a good two weeks, and some of 'em _are_ winding up having to be hospitalized. We're gonna be able to carry this off; good going."

The only one of the three who doesn't appear enthusiastic about the deception is House. As a matter of fact, he seems downright glum. Wilson and Cuddy exchange a look, and finally Cuddy asks, "Find another flaw?"

House doesn't answer right away. When he does speak, he doesn't make eye contact with either of them. "Didn't hear anything in there about how we're gonna explain away the _left_ leg. Kinda hard to hide a wheelchair when you're _sittin'_ in it."

Wilson regards him with surprise. "We'll have a diagnosis on that in a day or two, and we'll treat it. Won't even be an issue by the time we go back; you know that."

"I don't know that, and neither do you. None of the preliminary results found anything. Not likely the final results'll show anything different."

Wilson and Cuddy can tell immediately that House has been giving this a lot of thought, and that—while he'd never admit it—he's worried. So Cuddy gentles her voice, and approaches it from the 'compassionate doctor' angle. "If the final results don't show anything, that's _good_ news, you know. A minor injury. Long gone by the time you return to work. Sometimes, these things happen. Nothing ever shows up in the tests, but the symptoms are severe. And then it clears up as mysteriously as it came. We don't _know_ why; we don't have all the answers. It just… happens."

House looks angry now. "Forgive me if I don't get any reassurance from that canned '_relax and trust us_' speech. Last time I bought into _that_ garbage, I walked outta there with a third leg. Almost didn't _walk_ out at all." He slams the tip of the cane down for emphasis, and Cuddy winces at the sound—and the memory. She looks helplessly at Wilson.

Wilson's doing some fast thinking; he's actually _relieved_ that this is happening. House has been far too accepting of everything that's gone wrong the past several days, and this is the first time he's shown a real inclination to fight back. Wilson is also remembering what Dick had said; that House _would_ lash out, that he sees Wilson as a secure sounding board, that Wilson needs to be there for him when it happens. Wilson's trying to think of the right thing to say when he notices that House is now rubbing absently at his left thigh. Then the gesture becomes more focused, and House looks down at his leg.

"Could someone bring that chair over here?" House asks, but it sounds like a command. "I'd like to go to my room. Alone."

Wilson decides to take a chance—a big one. _Guess it's time to find out if all this trust-building will pay off._

Cuddy's already stood up to retrieve the wheelchair, and Wilson says quickly, "That's all right; I'll get it for him in a minute. Would you mind… uh… going to the newsstand for a Sunday paper?"

Cuddy catches on immediately. She grabs her purse and is out the door even before House has finished glaring at Wilson.

"What the hell was _that_ about?" House all but snarls. "And I want the wheelchair. Now." Wilson sees that now he's rubbing at the leg in earnest, stopping only to grip the muscle in a futile attempt to break the growing spasms.

Wilson matter-of-factly gets up from the end of the couch and moves some of the pillows. "If you think you'd be more comfortable in bed, I'll help you get there," he says mildly. "But I don't want you to be alone right now, so I'll stay. Personally, I think you'd be better off right here. Why don't you just go ahead and lie down, and we'll talk? Maybe it won't be so bad this time, but if it is, not a problem, really. I'll get a syringe ready. If that's okay." The tone of his voice hasn't changed, and when he's finished speaking, he just stands there, calmly awaiting House's response.

When House angrily attempts to stand and the leg collapses, Wilson doesn't move, doesn't indicate any concern or impatience. He's simply waiting for House to respond. He doesn't wait long.

"Don't patronize me!" House yells at him, and Wilson can feel House's frustration, his fury, building. He's glowering at his left leg as if it's betrayed him; when he transfers the look to Wilson, Wilson continues to regard him impassively.

Finally, _finally_, just as Wilson's decided that there are still some walls that haven't yet crumbled, that maybe House's anger and distrust go deeper than even Wilson had suspected, House takes a deep, irregular breath, and lowers his head. When he lifts it, he meets Wilson's eyes.

"I could use some help here," House tells him quietly, dispassionately.

Wilson goes calmly to his side, gently helps him slide back on the couch, carefully, tenderly, lifts the traitorous legs and positions them as comfortably as he can. Then he sits on the edge of the couch beside his friend. Only then does he look at House's face.

"I'm not patronizing you. I'm asking my patient's permission to help him, medically. If he refuses, I'll respect that, because I respect _him_. And then, I'll ask my _friend's_ permission to help him, to support him in any _other_ way that I can. Because I want to be here for him. As his physician, as his friend. I'll be here, either way. Both ways. I'll be here." When he finishes speaking, he keeps his gaze locked with House's.

House takes another deep, shaky breath; the spasm's building, and speech is an effort now. But when he speaks, the words are sure. "Your patient trusts you to do what's best for him. Your friend is…." House's eyes close as the pain builds; the end of the sentence is an anguished whisper. "…glad you're here."

Before Wilson stands to prepare the medication, his hand finds House's shoulder, his eyes find House's eyes. "Me, too" is all he can manage with his voice, but that's all right; his touch, and his eyes, convey all the rest. Now they know—they _both_ know—that they'll ride it out, whatever _'it'_ turns out to be, together.


	19. Chapter 19: Trials

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Trials

Throughout the spasm, Wilson sits on the edge of the couch, doing what he can with soothing words. And when that no longer seems enough, he places his hands above the knotted muscle and looks to House for permission. House nods at him, and Wilson firmly works the muscle until he sees House's face relax, his breathing even out again. And so the pain in House's left leg eases without the need for morphine, and that makes House and Wilson happy; they both feel as if they've somehow won a battle, in a war whose rules are yet unknown to them.

The rest of the day passes quietly. Cuddy senses that something important's happened in her absence, and that it was good. But she doesn't question either man; she knows only that both seem more comfortable with one another, that Wilson seems relieved, that House is less distant.

After a quiet dinner, she draws blood for the evening labs; she'll drop it off at Princeton General on her way home. House has had no further problems with the left thigh since this morning, and Wilson isn't as weary, as close to the edge, as he's been the past several days. Cuddy feels comfortable leaving them. When she bids them good night, they scarcely pause in the heated discussion they're having about tonight's television schedule. Both voices are good-natured, though, and she can tell they're having fun.

Several hours later, Wilson's getting House's meds and TPN ready for the night. He's got an ear out for House, who's in the shower, and he's thinking that it's been a good evening; gonna be a good night.

A few minutes later, House is settled in bed, and Wilson's preparing to hook up his total parenteral nutrition. He checks the insertion site for the PICC line, and looks up at House. "How long has this been red?"

"I dunno. Cuddy did the dressing change yesterday; she didn't say anything about it." House studies the site. "Maybe it's just from the hot water. Doesn't look too bad to me."

"We'll just keep an eye on it. Let me know if it starts to hurt, or if the erythema spreads, okay?" Wilson makes a mental note to run a blood culture in the morning.

"Will do. Hey, weighed myself, up ten pounds now! Five more, I'll only be tethered to this thing at night." He glances sidelong at Wilson.

Wilson grins at him. "Good try. I seem to recall that math was never your strong suit, and this one involves double digits, so I'll help ya out here. Ten plus five equals _fifteen_. We're going for _twenty_." Wilson's grin grows wider. "That would be ten plus _ten,"_ he adds helpfully.

"Yeah, I knew that. Just doin' a little check to see if that lorazepam's affecting your memory. Or your math skills."

"No such luck. All it's affecting is my ability to put up with _you_. And speaking of pills, here ya go," Wilson says as he hands House the Zofran and hydrocodone.

"And speaking of lorazepam," House says, "you taken it yet tonight?"

Wilson feels a quick flash of defensiveness. _I'm a big boy; I can see to my own dosing schedule_. Before he can say the words aloud, though, he realizes that maybe it's good for House to be concerned about someone other than himself; maybe it's even good to let House issue a medical order or two. So, instead of the sharp retort, he answers, "Not yet; I'll get to it."

"Why don't you 'get to it' now?" House asks. "We'll have a regular pill poppin' party," he says, indicating the Zofran and the super-Vic still in his hand. "Go get it; I'll wait 'til you get back. We can toast '_better living through chemistry_' together."

Wilson laughs, nods, and goes to get the little white pill that's helping him hold it all together. When he returns, he asks, "'_Better living through chemistry.' _Very amusing.Original line?"

House shakes his head, "No, commercial slogan. Before your time, kid." House rolls his eyes like a weary old man; Wilson can tell that he's in a good mood. "But it was funny _then_, too. So, uh…." He indicates the pill that Wilson's still holding, as he takes his own medication.

Because he knows that House expects it, Wilson makes a face at him before putting the pill in his mouth. After he swallows it, House regards him with satisfaction, and it dawns on Wilson that House might actually _miss_ caring for others. _Maybe it isn't all about the puzzle for him; maybe some of it, a little of it, could be the pleasure of help-- nah, this is House. But just in case…._

"Hey, could you do me a favor and take a look at my wrist? Lemme know if it's okay to get rid of this bandage now?" He sees House's eyes light up as he reaches for Wilson's wrist. _Well, I'll be damned! He actually does get some fulfillment from the caring. Learn something new every day._

House removes the elastic bandage, checks for swelling, manipulates the wrist gently. "That hurt?" he asks, and Wilson shakes his head. "Should be okay without the Ace. I'll check it again in the morning," House says. Then he turns the wrist over, and regards the fading thumbprint-shaped bruise for a while before releasing Wilson's hand. _You never said a word when I did that, Jimmy. Must've hurt like hell, and you just stood there. Almost like you deserved it. Wish you'd quit beating yourself up for what came before. And now you're even feeling guilty in your sleep…._

As if Wilson's read his mind, he says hesitantly to House, "Think I'm ready to tell you the rest of that nightmare now. Wanna hear it?"

"Sure; I love bedtime stories," House says. Then he sees the serious, almost fearful expression on Wilson's face. "Sure you're ready?" he asks, almost kindly.

Wilson nods tersely, but he doesn't begin speaking right away, and House is beginning to wish he'd told Wilson he was too tired, or something.

Once Wilson does start to talk, though, he appears driven—as if he _must_ get through the horrific story, as if survival depends on it. _But whose survival?_ House wonders as he listens.

"And then, you brought the pestle down on your left thigh. You did it again and again, until there was… nothing left." Wilson's voice is faint; his eyes are focused on the awful mental images. House wants to stop him, wants to find a way to chase the nightmare from his friend's mind. But all he can do is listen.

"I wanted to help you. I _tried_ to help you. I couldn't. I couldn't even _get_ to you… and then, when I did…." Wilson closes his eyes briefly; when he resumes speaking, his voice is almost inaudible, and House has to strain to hear the next words. "The muscle was gone; it was dead…. And you laughed." Wilson shakes his head, as if to clear the memory away, and then he looks at House with eyes that hold an unformed plea, and the vestiges of Wilson's helplessness.

"Doesn't take a shrink to analyze that," House says softly. "Look at me, Jimmy. And listen to me." House waits until he's certain that Wilson has come far enough out of the awful story that he's focused fully on House, in the here and now.

"I am _not_ suicidal; I told you that a week ago, and it's the truth. Told you I'm not going anywhere 'til you've been raised properly." House stops speaking a moment, and smiles. "And I'm revising the estimate of how long _that's_ gonna take upwards every day. I'll be around to make your life hell for a good long time yet."

Wilson smiles at that, but the plea is still in his eyes.

House continues, "And you're doing a good job. The best. Should've told you sooner. Should've told you better. But I'm telling you now, and I want you to believe it. Dragged you to Hell with me, and you've stood guard the whole way. '_Whatever it takes,'_ you told me, and that's what you've done. What you're doing. So do me another favor, all right?"

House waits for Wilson to nod at him, and he sees that the plea is gone from Wilson's eyes, sees that he's answered Wilson's unspoken question. "It's a really big favor, but I know you won't let me down; I want you to get outta here before I get all mushy on ya, okay? And get some sleep. Wait—that's _two_ favors. You're right; my math is lousy. Try to handle it." He shoots Wilson a mock glare.

Wilson is shaking his head and smiling as he shuts out the light. He waits until he's almost out of the room before he says softly, "Thanks, House." He closes the door quietly.


	20. Chapter 20: Trying

CHAPTER TWENTY: Trying

In the morning, the insertion site on House's PICC line remains inflamed, but it doesn't seem to be any worse. Wilson draws extra blood from the port for a culture anyway.

Both men have slept well. Cuddy was right; the Ativan hadn't interfered with Wilson's ability to hear his watch alarm during the night. He'd been able to check on House, and then return to sleep quickly. And it's made a difference; he feels more like himself this morning, and far less anxious than he's been. He doesn't even hesitate to take the 0.5mg dose that Cuddy had decreed necessary during the day.

House's night had passed without incident, so he, too, is in good spirits. Wilson wonders about the left leg, though; House doesn't even ask for his cane when it's time to go to the living room. When Wilson questions it, House says simply, "After yesterday, figured the chair might be safer for a while."

Once House is settled on the couch, he uses his doctor voice to say to Wilson, "Let me see that wrist now." The tone of the statement drives home to Wilson the importance of allowing House to take control whenever possible.

_Good to see him get satisfaction out of contributing, _Wilson thinks as House meticulously examines his wrist. _It's not only not hurting him to worry about me a little, I really think it lets him feel better about his own situation. Gotta remember that._

"You're okay to go without the bandage for now," House tells him. "I don't want that wrist stiffening up on you. But if it starts to swell again, let me know right away; I'll take another look at it."

Matching House's serious tone, Wilson thanks House, and assures him that he'll alert him immediately if there's any change in the wrist. House nods with satisfaction, evidently happy with his patient's compliance.

Wilson decides that the timing might be good for that talk on self-perception that Dick seems to think is so important. So after breakfast, when House reaches for the TV remote, Wilson stops him.

"Hey, can we talk a few minutes?" Wilson asks him.

"Haven't we been doing a lot of that lately?" House responds. "Doesn't a little mindless TV sound like more fun?"

"A _lot_ more fun," Wilson admits. "But this is important… or so they tell me."

"Who's '_they_'?"

"Cuddy and Dickinson," Wilson responds—and now House looks interested. "It's about the breakthrough pain; the loss of it, I mean. According to Dick, any major life change like that can cause a period of… uh… grieving, and--" Wilson isn't really surprised when he's interrupted. "House, would you stop laughing? This is serious."

House _does_ stop laughing, at least long enough to ask, "Now who the _hell_ would be upset at losing _pain_?" He considers his own question, and then answers it aloud while Wilson's eyebrows climb to his hairline.

"Well, maybe a masochist might be upset, but then he'd be in pain 'cuz he'd _lost_ his pain, so he's technically _still_ in pain, so there's really no loss of pain at all, so it's _all_ good. Which is bad. Or maybe not… if, by definition, you're a sadist, 'cuz then _that_ would mean… well, I'm not really sure _what_ that would mean, but it's something to think about."

Wilson waits patiently until House has curbed most of his amusement before he continues. "What I'm trying to say is, it's not the loss of the pain, so much as a change in how people perceive themselves, when something that's defined their existence is gone."

"I don't define myself by my pain," House responds—and immediately the discussion he'd had with Wilson in his nightmare comes rushing back to him. He shakes his head, trying to clear the memory, as Wilson looks on, concerned.

"What's the matter?" Wilson asks.

"That dream… the bad one. You told me that the only way I could come to terms with the disability was to redefine everything else, so that the leg, the pain, meant nothing. You wouldn't believe me when I…." House's voice trails off. He reaches over and picks up the remote, turns on the television. "I don't wanna talk about this anymore. You've done your duty; you've discussed it with me. I get it." House already has his eyes glued to an infomercial.

Now that Wilson's finally having this conversation, though, he wants to finish it out. "House." He waits. "House, please." Finally, House looks at him. "The concern is that if people don't come to terms with the changes, it could lead to problems." Wilson's been careful to keep the conversation general, careful to say 'people' instead of 'you'; he suspects that House wouldn't respond well if he made this specific to _House's_ state of mind.

But now he's thinking that generalizing it may have been a mistake. So he takes a deep breath, and approaches it again. "Look, it's like this. You had to live with the breakthrough pain for such a long time, and not only were you dealing with it… alone… uh, you were having to try to convince _us_ it was real. That's a raw deal. Makes sense that since you had to devote so much energy to getting us to believe you, after while the pain might begin to define who you are, how you feel."

"It didn't," House says shortly, and turns up the volume on the television to indicate the conversation's closed.

"I agree with you," Wilson says. House is surprised; he mutes the TV, and actually looks at Wilson.

"You _agree_ with me, yet you insist on discussing this?" he asks.

"I told Dick that you were handling the loss of the extra pain just fine, that I didn't feel this talk was necessary. And you had only two days of being back to status quo on the leg. So there's not even been much of a change so far, has there?"

"Not that I can see," House says. "Tell your shrink that his concern's misplaced. Tell him I can deal with it—if I ever get the chance to find out what it's like." He indicates the left leg with an expression approaching disgust.

"I'll do that," Wilson says. "But I need to know what I can do to help you come to terms with all this, and--"

House's voice is unexpectedly gentle, almost amused, when he interrupts. "Stop already! That's how you can help. Told you there's not a problem; stop trying to _cause_ one, okay? In case you haven't noticed, all you've been doing for, what, eleven days, is '_helping_'."

House quirks his mouth into a half-smile. "And now, in true Jimmy Wilson fashion, we're moving smoothly from 'helping' right into 'overcompensating.' So quit it. That's an order."

Wilson's smile is chagrined, and he nods at House. "Yeah. Okay. Sor--" He cuts off the apology, and laughs at himself. "You're right. So I'll just shut up now."

House picks up the television remote. "That's the first sensible thing you've said this morning," he observes. "So shut up already; almost time for SpongeBob. It's a good one, too; he and Patrick _both_ get to sing!"

"Now _I'm_ the one in pain," Wilson mutters darkly. But he feels good; now he can tell Cuddy and Dick that he and House have had the vital conversation, and he'd been right—no problem at all.


	21. Chapter 21: Questions

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Questions

At lunchtime, House picks at his meal. All Wilson's attempts at conversation are met with monosyllabic answers. When Wilson questions his increasingly listless behavior, House _says_ he feels all right, claims to be enjoying the taco salad he'd asked for but hasn't touched. He denies nausea, but something just isn't right.

As the afternoon progresses, House's mood becomes apathetic. And when Cuddy comes by after work with a new video game, House's eyes brighten briefly, but he just thanks her and sets it aside. Cuddy then produces a get-well card for Wilson from the team, and it raises no sarcastic crack out of House. Wilson decides then that something's up, and it can't be good.

Cuddy senses that something's wrong, too, and tries to make House laugh by telling him about Cameron's reaction to Wilson's supposed 'flu. "The first thing she said was, '_Oh, poor House; he'll probably get it too. Wouldn't it be safer to just admit Dr. Wilson?' _And then, of course, Chase pointed out that if you _do_ get it, you'll need someone to soothe your fevered brow. That cheered her up considerably!"

Wilson laughs; House forces a small smile, but there's no humor in it— he doesn't seem interested in the conversation. Cuddy looks a question at Wilson, who can only shrug back at her and shake his head. But there's _no_ question, to either of them, that even the small effort he's putting forth is tiring House, so Cuddy cuts her visit short. "Let me know what's going on with him," she whispers to Wilson at the door; he assures her he will, as soon as _he_ knows.

After seeing Cuddy out, Wilson goes to sit beside House. "Leg bothering you? Either of them?" he asks.

"No. Just lazy today, I guess. Matter of fact, I think I'd like to catch a nap," House says.

"Wait a second. Lemme just get a quick set of vitals, okay?" Wilson's concern is growing; House looks flushed, and his eyes are almost glassy. Wilson reaches for his wrist to get a pulse, and is surprised at how warm the skin is. He turns the arm to see if the erythema at the PICC site has worsened, and is relieved to see that the site is actually clear again. But House's pulse is slightly elevated. "Gonna get the thermometer; be right back," Wilson says. While he's in the bedroom, he also grabs a stethoscope and the pulse oximeter.

As Wilson approaches the couch, he notes that House's respiratory rate is too rapid, and the effort's somewhat shallow. He hands House the thermometer. House rolls his eyes, but puts it in his mouth. When it signals, he doesn't even glance at the reading, just hands it back to Wilson.

"You've got a fever. Just 100.8, but enough to make you feel under the weather. Can ya sit up a little? I wanna get a good listen to your lungs."

Wilson listens closely to the breath sounds. They're clear, but he thinks they might be slightly diminished on the right. He's not reassured when the pulse ox result is only 92 percent. He frowns down at House, who's already lain back and closed his eyes. "I'm not gonna medicate for the temp right now," he says. "I'd like to watch it a little while."

House flings an arm over his eyes and nods, clearly disinterested. "Just let me get some rest; I'll be fine," he mumbles.

"Okay; here if you need me," Wilson tells him quietly as he settles himself in the chair with a medical journal he knows he's too distracted to read. _What now? If it's not the PICC site, could be pneumonia. He's not been moving around much on his own, especially since the wheelchair. With the larger doses of hydrocodone, his cough reflex is even more suppressed. And as rundown as he is…._

Wilson looks over at House, who's already fallen asleep. He looks better than he did a week ago, and the weight gain's starting to show. But he still appears too frail to Wilson's discerning eye. _If his temp goes up, or the pulse ox goes down, not gonna wait on the blood cultures. I'll start a broad spectrum antibiotic tonight. Pneumonia right now could kill him._

Wilson watches House for several more minutes; he's sleeping soundly now, but his respiratory rate hasn't slowed, and the effort is still too shallow. Finally, Wilson sighs and opens the journal, trying to keep his eyes on the words, and off of the worrisome human puzzle across the room.

When an hour has passed, Wilson rises from the chair and goes to stand over House. It's 6:30pm, time to check his temp again. "House, wake up; dinner time." House shifts position, and turns over so that his back is to Wilson.

"Go 'way. Not hungry," he says.

Wilson puts a hand on one thin shoulder, and his lips purse with worry. He draws his hand back and reaches for the thermometer. "You're burning up. C'mon, I need to get a temp."

House grumbles, but reaches blearily for the thermometer Wilson's holding out, and puts it in his mouth. When it beeps, Wilson takes it out. "Almost one-oh-two," he tells House. "I'm gonna go order a few doses of ceftriaxone from the hospice pharmacy, have 'em deliver it tonight. And I'm gonna get you some ibuprofen. Don't go back to sleep now; you need to take it."

"Uh-huh," House mumbles, unimpressed.

"I mean it," Wilson says. "Stay awake a few minutes. Looks like you might have a touch of pneumonia brewing. I need you to take the ibuprofen, and then we'll get you back to bed. You're gonna eat some soup, at least; not putting that super-Vic into an empty stomach. You didn't eat lunch. House, are you listening to me?"

House doesn't open his eyes, but he actually smiles as he responds. "If I repeat it all back to you, will you go the hell away and let me sleep?"

Wilson can't help smiling, too; nice to know that House isn't too ill to give him a hard time. "If you can repeat it all back to me, then you already know the answer to that. So sit up and stop being difficult, or I'll be forced to throw your GameBoy through the TV screen. Then, you won't be able to play your new game—which, Cuddy tells me, has fifty-eight levels. Naked girls on level 58. You _also_ won't be able to watch TV. So we'll have plenty of time to _talk_, get in touch with our feelings. All that really fun stuff."

House's grin widens, and he opens his eyes. "You really know how to hit a guy where it hurts," he says, as he struggles to a sitting position.

"Yeah. I lie awake at night, just thinking of ever-more-inventive ways to torture you," Wilson says dryly. "Glad you liked that one; it's my own personal favorite." He heads off to the kitchen to get the Motrin as he allows House's laughter to ease his own anxiety.


	22. Chapter 22: Breathe

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Breathe

The first thing Wilson does when he gets to the kitchen is to place a call to the pharmacy to order the ceftriaxone; he requests a stat delivery. The sooner they get it started, the better. He also orders three days' worth of albuterol aerosols and a nebulizer; House's lack of mobility and the effects of the hydrocodone on his cough reflex have to be countered somehow.

Then Wilson calls Cuddy. He tells her he's virtually certain that House has pneumonia, and he gives her his plan of treatment. She insists on a chest x-ray for confirmation, and Wilson concedes it's not a bad idea. Cuddy promises to set up a visit by mobile radiology in the morning.

When Wilson returns to the living room, House has propped himself up on the pillows. He's awake, but he looks miserable. Wilson hands him the ibuprofen, then picks up the pulse oximeter. After House has swallowed the pills, Wilson hands him the oximeter. House attaches it to his finger and holds his hand up for Wilson to read the number.

"You must not have it positioned right," Wilson tells him as he takes House's hand and positions the monitor himself. He gets the same reading, 90 percent. Wilson picks up his stethoscope. "Sit forward and take some deep breaths."

There's no real change in House's breath sounds; his lungs are still clear, but now Wilson is certain that the air exchange is diminished in the right lower lobes—and even the deep breaths haven't changed the pulse ox reading. "Let's get you into the bedroom," Wilson says calmly as he positions the wheelchair by the couch.

House is able to transfer himself to the chair, but it's clear that this minimal physical effort is difficult for him. He sits huddled in the chair, eyes glazed and unfocused, as Wilson disconnects the IV. "Feel like crap," he says as Wilson pushes the chair to the bedroom. "It's cold in here." That's when Wilson sees that House is shivering.

Once Wilson has him settled in bed, he takes another temperature. "Your fever's spiking; almost 103 now, that explains the chills. Don't need a chest x-ray to tell me it's pneumonia. No wonder you feel like crap." While Wilson's speaking, he's rolling the portable O2 setup to the bedside.

"What's _that _for?" House grumbles.

"Oh, it's just a little something I like to do when a patient's O2 sat falls below life-sustaining levels," Wilson answers lightly. "Humor me."

"Ninety isn't that bad," House counters, shooting a dirty look in the direction of the oxygen setup.

"No, not bad at all—_if_ you're a lifelong asthmatic who chain-smokes," Wilson retorts as he connects fresh tubing to the machine and sets the gauge for three liters. "We caught this early, and the antibiotics will be here soon; odds are you won't need the O2 for long."

Wilson tries to hand the nasal cannula to House, who patently ignores it. "A touch of pneumonia—not a big deal," he tells Wilson.

"You're absolutely right," Wilson says agreeably. "And we're gonna make certain it doesn't _become_ a big deal," he continues pleasantly as he positions the nasal cannula in House's nose. "To that end, I'll start the antibiotics as soon as they arrive, and we'll start aerosol treatments every six hours. Oh, and your boss has decreed that you're getting a chest x-ray in the morning. We're attacking this thing from all sides; it doesn't stand a chance."

Wilson is smiling and casual—and laughing inwardly. House is obviously frustrated that Wilson is refusing to engage in debate, and finally, he simply rolls his eyes and leans back against the pillows in an exaggerated gesture of defeat. "Could've won that if I felt a little better," he says, in an undertone.

"I'm certain you would've," Wilson says soothingly, trying not to smirk. "So I won't hold the loss against you."

"Big of you," House mumbles. He's started to shiver again. "Can I have another blanket? Or is freezing to death part of your overly-aggressive plan of attack? 'Cuz I hear death cures a lot of things."

"If you'll stop whining, I'll be happy to let ya know." Wilson places the tympanic thermometer in House's ear canal. "Sorry," he says. "Still one-oh-two point eight. Let's wait on the blanket until it's below 102. In the meantime," he continues, grabbing several pillows and placing them on House's lap, "lean forward for me, gonna do a little CPT while we're waiting on the aerosols."

"Chest physiotherapy?" House asks with disgust. "Works great with pediatric patients and comatose adults. I don't fit in either of those categories."

Wilson decides to let that one slide—especially since House has already leaned obediently into the stack of pillows in front of him. Wilson cups his hands and starts the rhythmic percussion against House's back that's designed to loosen secretions in the lungs. He begins forcefully, but when he sees House wince he realizes quickly that the procedure's uncomfortable for him; House is still so thin that Wilson feels as if he's striking directly on bone. He's glad that House can't see the sadness on his face as he gentles his hands, and uses precisely the force he'd use with a pediatric patient. And when he finishes, Wilson doesn't remove his hands; he flattens them out and carefully rubs the skeletal back, to take the sting out of the percussion—just as he'd do for a child.

Wilson feels the muscles relax under his hands, and smiles a bit when House takes a deep, shaky breath, letting go of the tension his frail body had created to defend itself against the blows.

Wilson continues the massage for a few extra minutes, to unobtrusively allow House to regain a bit of stamina before they have to repeat the procedure on his chest. Finally, he grasps House's shoulders gently, and leans him back against the pillows at his head. House doesn't open his eyes, and doesn't attempt to reposition himself; he's relaxed, and already breathing more easily, and appears content now to submit to the gentle ministrations.

Midway through the chest percussions, House begins to cough. Wilson gives him a handful of tissues, and keeps his hands on House's shoulders as the coughing wracks his body. But Wilson isn't surprised when House is unable to bring anything up; the cough effort he's able to sustain is too weak to be effective.

"Sorry," House whispers. "I know you need a sputum specimen. Was gonna try. Hurts." He leans forward and begins to cough again, and this time Wilson wraps an arm around his back, and holds a pillow firmly against his chest, to lessen the discomfort.

Wilson had been prepared to remind him that it's _supposed_ to hurt, that even 'a touch' of pneumonia can mean a day or two of feeling awful. Instead, he waits for the coughing to end, and then he just says quietly, "We don't need a specimen unless the antibiotics aren't effective; don't try so hard. It's okay; I know. I know it hurts. I'm sorry. We've got the secretions moving, though; that's what's important." And he decides to forego the remainder of the CPT.

When the medications arrive a little while later, Wilson draws blood for the labs first; he wants a complete blood count before starting the ceftriaxone, and he's arranged for the courier to make an early pickup. Then he gives a loading dose of the antibiotic, but elects to wait a couple of hours on the aerosols. House's fever is finally coming down, his O2 sats are approaching normal, and he's fallen into an almost-comfortable sleep.

Wilson sits by the bedside for the next two hours, watching as House occasionally struggles for breath. Wilson adjusts the pillows to keep his head elevated, and twice removes House's fingers from the nasal cannula when he attempts to take it off in his sleep. When the fever finally breaks, Wilson wipes the sweat from House's face and slides a clean pillow under his head. Then he gently arranges the promised extra blanket over his legs and chest. House continues to sleep.

At 10:30pm, as Wilson's preparing the aerosol treatment, House awakens on his own. He's already feeling better, and he takes the nebulized aerosol without argument. When Wilson hands him his medications, he looks at the pills, and then at Wilson. "You already take yours?"

Wilson looks away from him. "Well… no. Figured I'd skip it tonight, uh… just in case."

House nods. "I see." Then, he sets his own medication down on the bedside table, deliberately reaches up and begins to remove his nasal cannula.

"Hey! What are you doing? It's already past time for your meds. And we just got your sats back to normal range!"

"Past time for _your_ med, too. And I figured I'd skip the O2 tonight, so you'd have something _real_ to worry about while you stay awake. Just in case."

The two men look at each other wordlessly. Wilson's glaring at House, while House watches Wilson with something approaching amusement. Wilson's the one to break eye contact. He shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck, sighs. "Fine. I'll take it. Get the oxygen back on. Take the pills. I'll be right back."

When Wilson's awakened by his alarm at 4:00am, he prepares the neb and enters House's room quietly. House is sleeping peacefully. His temp's under 100, his O2 sat is 95 percent—and he's wearing the O2, as promised. Wilson decides to give the aerosol blow-by; he doesn't want to wake House, so he holds the treatment by his mouth and nose until it's gone. Then he carefully does a respiratory assessment, and he's pleased that House's respiratory status has remained stable. _Okay, House, so I didn't need to sit up and worry all night. Guess what? Happy to have been wrong._

Wilson gently adjusts a pillow that's slipped down, and straightens the blankets that House had kicked away. Then he returns to the living room to lie on the couch, and falls easily back into a peaceful sleep himself.


	23. Chapter 23: Results

**A/N: **_Hi, kids. As a few of you already know ('cuz I do love to whine), I am currently battling The Cold From Hell, hereafter referred to simply as TCFH. And TCFH is winning, hands down. I've been trying to write, but I'm getting sicker (as a matter of fact, I guarantee that House could beat me right now in an O2 sat contest). So I'm gonna try to give TCFH what it wants, and just rest tomorrow. I'll try to post, but if I don't, please address any nastygrams to TCFH! _mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Results

In the morning, House feels well enough to complain about the oxygen, and the aerosols, and the scheduled chest x-ray. Wilson, relieved that they've turned the situation around before it could become serious, tolerates the griping good-naturedly, and even agrees to decrease the O2 to two liters. This pacifies House only until the mobile radiology service arrives.

"Why do we need a chest x-ray?" House asks. "We know it's pneumonia; two out of two department heads agree. Can't we skip the unnecessary dose of radiation?"

When the radiology tech starts to explain that the radiation exposure is minimal, Wilson quickly informs her that House is _not_ the department head of the Housewares section, but of Diagnostics. She wisely refrains from further explanation, but Wilson hears her mutter under her breath, "Doctors are the absolute _worst_."

Wilson leans over and whispers back to her, "And I assure you, Dr. House is the _worst_ of the worst." The tech completes her work and makes a hasty retreat.

Wilson raises a questioning eyebrow at House, who's been snickering since Wilson's comment to the tech. "_House_wares," House explains. "I love a bad pun, 'specially when it pertains to _me_!" Wilson can only shake his head and groan.

House eats a good lunch, then settles on the couch to watch his soaps. The TV hasn't been on even five minutes, though, when he falls asleep. Wilson's noticed that—since the discussion of House's recurring nightmare—House has shown no further reluctance to sleep. The naps that he'd previously been denying himself during the day are now becoming a regular part of the routine. In Wilson's opinion, that can only help speed up House's recovery.

But this time, it's different. As Wilson walks through the living room, a glance over at the sleeping man causes Wilson to freeze where he stands. House's face is contorted, his teeth are clenched, and there's a line of sweat above his lip. He's pulling his left leg up towards his chest. As Wilson watches, House's eyes open wide and both hands go to the left thigh. But before Wilson can cross the room, House's hands relax, and he straightens out the leg. He shakes his head at Wilson; he looks puzzled.

"What was that?" Wilson asks quietly as he approaches the couch.

"Not sure. I guess I was dreaming that my leg hurt. But when I woke up, it was fine. Weird." House moves to a sitting position, and rubs experimentally at his left thigh. "Doesn't hurt at all."

"Do you remember what you were dreaming about when it started?" asks Wilson as he checks the muscle; it seems fine.

House thinks about this, then says, "No idea." His expression becomes mischievous, teasing. "I got it! I've been _grieving_ the loss of the pain so much that my subconscious decided to make me feel _better_ by letting me dream about it. Too cool!"

Wilson is not amused. "No. I _saw_ your face before you woke up. You looked like you were in agony. It was real."

"Oh, relax! Maybe I hit my leg on the couch or something."

Now it's Wilson's turn to be amused. "Yeah, those sofa cushions and all those pillows can be _murder_ on the joints. Gotta be real careful near those soft, round objects." He grows serious again. "Everything I've ever read indicates that pain incorporated into dreams is _actual_ pain that's disrupting REM sleep. You're certain you're okay?"

The look on House's face can only be called patronizing. "Let me get this straight. You're upset because I'm _not_ having a problem. You're concerned that I'm _not_ currently in pain? Sorry that I'm… uh… comfortable. If it'll make you feel better, I'll try to arrange for an abscessed tooth or something…."

Wilson has to laugh at that. "You're right; it's ridiculous to worry that you're _not_ in pain. But that was… strange."

House shrugs and turns to the television, the odd occurrence forgotten.

But just half an hour later, Wilson thinks that the weird dream may simply have been a harbinger—as he enters the room with a fresh bag of TPN, House is rubbing angrily at the left thigh, and this time he's definitely awake.

House looks up at Wilson's entrance. "Hurts for real this time." He tries to smile. "Happy now?" House asks, but the weak attempt at humor dies on his lips when he sees the concern etched across Wilson's face. So he looks away, and decides to be honest. "It's gonna be a bad one."

Wilson wonders if House is asking for the morphine to be administered before the spasm can get out of control. "Should I--" Before he can finish the question, House nods sharply.

Before he leaves to prepare the med, Wilson goes to the couch to see if he can help House position himself more comfortably.

"_Don't touch me_," House grinds out, as he curls himself protectively over the leg. "Just get it." And Wilson knows this is going to be the worst one yet.

Wilson returns as quickly as he can with the morphine. He's got two 5mg syringes. He'd like to keep the dose to a minimum; this is not the time to be depressing House's already-compromised respiratory effort. But it's also not the time to be second-guessing his degree of pain, so Wilson's prepared, either way.

House has already reached the point in the spasm where all ten fingers are still and white, dug deeply into the muscle. His eyes are tightly closed; he's trying hard to control his breathing, but it's coming in anguished gasps.

Wilson knows that House will hear him only peripherally, but he speaks calmly anyway. "I'm pushing the med now," he says as he swabs the port and inserts the syringe. "It'll start to ease up soon." He murmurs all the soothing nonsense he can think of as he watches House's face and continues to administer the dose.

"You're doing real well controlling your breathing; keep it up. Got about 3mg in now; should be hitting the spasm. Breathe. I'm right here; you're doing good. Relax your hands, let the med work. Just go with it. And breathe again…."

House obediently pulls in a breath, and his hands move slowly away from the leg. His eyes are still tightly shut, but the lines of his face are beginning to relax. He takes a few more breaths before he speaks. "Okay. It's bearable. Wasn't as bad as I thought." He opens his eyes and looks at Wilson. "Thanks."

_Not as bad as you thought? Bearable? Oh, God, House—you can't live like this! It's not fair; gotta find out what it is. Gonna fix it. _Wilson tries to imbue his voice with confidence as he answers. "We should get the test results back today; we'll know what it is. We'll take care of it. Promise. Just… hang in there, a little while longer."

House smiles sadly. "Shouldn't make promises you can't keep," he says softly, and the discouragement in his voice twists at Wilson's heart.

House looks directly at Wilson. "Been thinking. There's been no improvement; if it were an injury, it'd be better by now. If the tests don't show anything, I… want you to do a biopsy."

"No! We'll figure this out; that won't be necessary! House, I--"

"Be objective," House interrupts flatly, harshly. "If I were any other patient, what would be your next move?"

"But you're _not_ any other…." Wilson's voice trails off. He lowers his head, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Ten seconds of absolute silence pass, and then Wilson sighs. "A muscle biopsy. We'll have to wait about ten days because of the EMG. That'll give me time to find someone to do the procedure."

"No. I said I want _you_ to do it." There's a plea in House's eyes that he can't voice, and that Wilson can't turn down.

"Okay. I'll do it. Maybe… maybe it won't come to that. We've still got ten days for this to resolve." But Wilson doesn't even try to put hope in his voice; he won't insult House that way.

Both House and Wilson are subdued the rest of the day. When Cuddy arrives, shortly after 6:30, Wilson pulls her into the kitchen and updates her. She, too, is shocked and saddened by House's request, but she understands why Wilson has agreed to it.

"I'll take care of him this evening, get him settled for the night," Cuddy offers. "Try not to worry too much. Call me optimistic, but ten days _is_ a long time; something might still change."

Wilson gratefully accepts her offer—_and_ her optimism. Now that the initial shock has worn off, he's daring to hope again for a less drastic answer.

When the courier arrives that night, Cuddy is just leaving House's room, and she's smiling. She'd allowed House to remove the oxygen an hour earlier, and he's maintained his sats at 95 percent on his own. He'd managed a good cough effort after the aerosol treatment, he's moving air well—and he'd gone contentedly to sleep after trouncing Cuddy soundly in a game of gin.

Wilson's happier, too. He's made use of the time Cuddy's given him to do extensive research into the differentials on House's leg pain, and he doesn't think that even the muscle biopsy will reveal anything that can't be treated. So when the courier hands him an envelope containing the test results, he feels no sense of foreboding.

Wilson closes the door and moves to the couch to open the envelope. He quickly scans the cover page, and his face goes pale as Cuddy hears him whisper, _"No!"_

Cuddy starts towards him as he tears almost frantically through the pages of final results. As she's about to ask him what they show, he stands abruptly, scattering the papers, and heads to the kitchen. He's shaking his head, and repeating, "No; it _can't_ be. No!"

Alarmed now, Cuddy reaches over and grabs the cover letter. She skips rapidly to the last few lines, where she's aware any diagnoses and recommendations will be. Her eyes widen as she reads, then she lifts her head, and listens. And she hears Wilson pick up the phone.


	24. Chapter 24: Repercussions

**A/N: **_Well, TCFH has worsened--but since that means that I and the laptop are confined to bed, I got chapter twenty-four ready for posting, and here it is. I truly didn't intend to be mean, but it was slightly amusing! Figured I'd better post tonight, as my dear bud, angelfirenze, is getting quite skillful at disguising her death threats as reviews! . _mjf :)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Repercussions

When Wilson finally hangs up the phone, he looks at Cuddy, sitting across from him, and he tries to take encouragement from her calm demeanor. She'd been wonderful during the phone consultation; she'd followed him into the kitchen, test results in hand, and she'd provided moral support—and the clear mind that Wilson had lacked.

Cuddy had stayed silent throughout, but would periodically hand him a pertinent question, or observation, scribbled quickly on a sheet of paper, and he'd pass it on and be grateful that she'd thought to bring it up. And every few minutes, her warm hand would come down firmly on Wilson's own cold, trembling fingers, and reassurance would flow through him, for a little while. So now, he thanks her, and hopes that she knows how deep his gratitude really is.

Then they discuss the diagnosis, and the consultation, and the possible ways all this might play out. What they _don't_ discuss is how this could have happened—and Wilson's even more grateful for that.

After Cuddy leaves, Wilson goes to House's room. He's able to busy himself for several minutes with all the routine night duties—a set of vital signs, a pulse ox reading, a careful assessment. He's grateful for the tasks; they enable him, for a short while, to fill his mind with something other than the final test results, the upsetting phone call, the hour-long talk with Cuddy after he'd hung up.

But eventually the chores end, as he knew they would. And all that's left is to sink wearily into the bedside chair and stare at his sleeping friend. And think. There's too much thinking to do, and his thoughts go in fruitless circles. He blames that on the Ativan, but he knows it's just an excuse—and a poor one, at that. So he takes a perverse satisfaction in punishing himself by allowing those fruitless thoughts free rein through his mind, as he stares at the unknowing victim of his mistake, his stupidity, his denial. It might be easier on him if he weren't looking at House, and he doesn't deserve 'easier,' so he denies himself permission to leave, or even to look away from the man in the bed.

_I did this to you, and now I can't even fix it. The only one who can undo it is you. I'll try to help—if you'll let me. But, no matter what I do, you'll still be the one paying for my mistake, and I have no idea how much it'll cost you. The last person in the world I'd ever want to harm, and I've found the single most effective way to hurt you. You trusted me to keep you safe, and now it turns out I've been your biggest danger._

House shifts position in the bed; he frowns as if Wilson's thoughts are being telegraphed to him in his sleep. Wilson studies his face; he's always found it fascinating that when House is sleeping, and all his walls are down, he looks so wholly defenseless. There's a sadness there, an utter _vulnerability_, whose depths Wilson's never seen in the face of any other adult, certainly never sees in House at any other time.

As House's frown eases, and his face relaxes again, that vulnerability momentarily overwhelms Wilson; his only thought is a fierce desire to protect this occasionally child-like friend of his from the world.

_And I did try to protect you. You're right, you know; I do overcompensate, don't I? This time, all that bought you was protection from the truth. You knew it; you tried to tell me with that nightmare of yours. Hell, I knew the truth too; my own nightmare shouted it at me. And I was so busy convincing both of us that I could fix everything that I turned a deaf ear to what you tried to say. Even ignored my own subconscious._

Wilson shifts uncomfortably in the chair, then stills himself as House turns in the bed. He waits, not even breathing, until House sighs and settles back into sleep.

_It was right in front of us, in front of me, and I refused to see it, to deal with it. Some doctor I am. Some friend. Some… brother. It won't count for anything, but I'm sorry. So damned sorry…._

Finally, with a last, regretful look at House, Wilson stands and makes his way wearily to the couch. He sleeps, but despite the medication, his brain battles all night with the repercussions of his neglect.

At 6:00am, he gives up the battle, and rises for the day. After checking on House, the first thing he does is to gather the test results and his laptop. He needs to start figuring out how to tell House what's wrong, and to help him through this, _if_ House will allow it. And at least he'd had the presence of mind last night to ask that the phone conversation be recorded, and to ask Dr. Richard Dickinson to send it to him immediately. A quick check of his email confirms that Dick had uploaded the voice file to him shortly after they'd spoken.

Wilson takes the papers and the laptop to the kitchen and lays everything neatly out on the table while he waits for the coffee to brew. When the coffee's done, Wilson picks up the pot to pour a cup. But his hands are shaking, and the pot slips from his grasp. He's somehow able to catch it before it hits the floor, but there's coffee everywhere. He sighs, rinses the pot, and starts the coffee again.

While he waits, Wilson turns the water on and scrubs the counter and floor with vigor. He knows he's simply using the mess to stall the inevitable, but he's pleasantly surprised at how comforting he finds the mindless cleaning tasks. So when he's finally ready to get started, he feels a bit more relaxed, and a lot more clear-minded. He sits down in front of a blank legal pad and turns on last night's voice file. A pen in one hand, his coffee in the other, he's as ready as he'll ever be to face the repercussions of his own inactions.


	25. Chapter 25: Betrayed

**A/N: **_I am so terribly sorry! I honestly hadn't ANY intention, at all, of continuing the cliffhanger with that last chapter; I'd thought that I'd done enough foreshadowing in the previous chapters that chapter 24 would make the diagnosis clear. Blew that, huh? I'm hopeful that this next chapter will clarify everything for everyone, but if you still have questions, please feel free to PM or email me. You guys have been such a loyal, supportive group throughout all three stories; I'd never intentionally do anything that cruel to you. Again, my most humble apologies for the general annoyance and confusion. _mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Betrayed

Wilson clicks on the voice file from last night's conversation, and smiles sadly as he hears the first statement he'd made to Dick, because in any other circumstance Dick's oversight might never have been noticed:

'_When we were talking about how the loss of the breakthrough pain might affect House, you mentioned that there could be serious consequences if he didn't acknowledge the change, and accept it. But, uh … I think maybe you might've forgotten to mention what those consequences might be. And I guess I need to know…. '_

Wilson's smile fades quickly as he listens to Dickinson's answer:

'_Well, the most serious thing, of course, would be a conversion disorder, or a psychosomatic illness.'_

Wilson pauses the file and picks up the cover page from the test results. He's read and reread the last few lines several times, but now he reads them again. And of course, the words haven't changed:

POSSIBLE DIAGNOSES AND RECOMMENDATIONS: A full battery of tests, including imaging studies with and without contrast, bloodwork, nerve conduction studies, and an electromyogram, have revealed no underlying physiological disease process. No pathology was detected. In light of these results, recommendation is that malingering or psychosomatic illness be given consideration.

Wilson knows that malingering isn't the problem; that leaves only one thing, something that_ shouldn't_ be the problem. _Something that wouldn't be the problem if I'd talked to him. Damn._

He resumes the file and listens as he reads the same damning lines aloud to Dickinson, and as Dickinson asks him if he's blaming himself.

'_Of course I'm blaming myself; who else is there? How many times did you tell me to speak with him about his changing self-perception? Hell, even Cuddy realized the importance of that after she listened to our session. I thought it wasn't necessary, and now he's paying for it.'_

'_James, let it go. Let go of the guilt. It won't help Dr. House, and it'll paralyze you, and then you won't be able to help him either. It should help you to know that, in my opinion, this would've happened anyway. You made several good points the last time we talked. You told me he wouldn't be receptive to such a conversation, and you know him well, so I've no reason to doubt that. But the most important thing you told me was that the problems with his left leg started on his first full day home. So you were correct when you pointed out that he hadn't had time to view his pain problems any differently.'_

Wilson pauses the file again, and starts scribbling a timeline on the legal pad. When he's finished, he reads it over thoughtfully. As he reads, a little of the weight is lifting from his shoulders; some of the guilt begins to recede. "Maybe he's right about that," he murmurs aloud. He resumes play.

'_Maybe, maybe not. I'll deal with the guilt, Dick. That's not why I'm calling you. The overriding concern is House. If this diagnosis is accurate—and I really can't see any way around that—then how do I help him? And how do I even tell him?"_

"_You can't tell him yet. First, you have to accept it. Otherwise, he'll pick up on your guilt, your doubt, and he'll grab onto those to deny the reality of the diagnosis."_

"_No. I'm going to tell him. Right away. I can't keep this from him; I won't. I promised him my honesty. I've practically forced him to trust me. I owe him that; I owe him so much more than that, after what my own disbelief did to him for months. I won't even consider hiding this from him. No.'_

There's a long pause at this point in the recording, and as Wilson listens to the silence, knowing what comes next, he can't help wondering if Dick is going to be right.

'_You told me, the first time you came to see me, that you were willing to sacrifice the friendship if it meant saving the friend. You need to know that if you insist on telling him before he's ready, before you're ready, that you may, in fact, be making that sacrifice.'_

'_That can't matter. Any loss I take isn't important, as long as House gets through this, and gets well. As long as his sense of trust isn't disrupted again. He may blame me for this; he may even hate me. But at least he'll know that I was honest with him, and I know House; no matter what happens, he'll never forget that.'_

Dick's sigh is so loud that it transmits clearly on the recording, and when he resumes speaking, his voice is resigned—but it's clear that, although he doesn't agree with Wilson's decision, he's going to try to help him as best he can.

'_Then just tell him. Don't sugarcoat it. And be prepared for his anger, and for his rejection of the diagnosis. And all you'll be able to do is give him time, and give him room. The situation won't resolve unless and until he accepts it. I don't know how long that'll take. The good news here is your stubborn insistence on total honesty; he may, eventually, give that high importance in reaching a decision to combat this. Don't get me wrong; I still think telling him right now is a mistake, but I'm willing to say it could pay off, in the long run.'_

'_Thanks, Dick; it's good to know there's some hope. I've got another question. I told you about the pneumonia earlier, during our regular call. Aside from that, he's showing improvement overall. It's slow, but it's steady. Could any reaction he has to this new diagnosis endanger his recovery?'_

'_No, I don't think so. He's got the most conscientious doctor on the planet; his general recovery should continue unimpeded. But now I have a question for you. I know you can handle getting him through this newest diagnosis. But you're gonna need some guidance. The only way I can do that effectively is to meet him, try and get an idea of how—or if—he's coping. Think he's up to that poker game yet? Say, Friday night?'_

'_That's three days away; the pneumonia should be pretty close to resolved by then. Yeah, we could try it. Just… uh… don't expect a warm reception from him, okay?'_

'_Now there's a surprise! Here I was, expecting to be treated like visiting royalty—the good china, and his best manners. Damn, I'm disappointed!'_

Dick laughs at this point, and Wilson, listening now, allows himself a chuckle, and wonders if even Dick is any match for the barbed sarcasm that's sure to come his way.

The next part of the discussion is especially difficult for Wilson to listen to, as Dick points out all the missed clues; House's recurring nightmare, where Wilson actually accuses House of defining himself through his pain, and Wilson's awful dream of watching House destroy his left thigh to spite Wilson's belief that House _needed_ to be in pain. And the timing of the spasms, almost always coming when House would be feeling insecure. Even the most recent "dream spasm," which ended when House awakened, but turned into an actual spasm when House was contemplating the need for a muscle biopsy.

Wilson makes careful notes, listing all these incidents, and remembering others, like the night they'd returned from the nerve-wracking tests at Princeton General, and the morning House had begged Wilson not to leave for the day. He writes these down as well.

Wilson continues to listen to the file as Dickinson's voice tells him that, ideally, the discussion about self-perception should have come prior to the treatment for breakthrough pain. It's Dick's theory that House hadn't had the time to really assimilate the information that he was no longer being doubted by the people closest to him. He also hadn't yet had confidence in his own decision to trust Wilson and Cuddy. As a result, Dick continues, his brain is now rebelling against both the rapid physical _and_ emotional changes in his life. His mind is unconsciously seeking out the familiar patterns of the pain.

Dickinson even postulates that House's initial resistance to the morphine may have been an unconscious acknowledgement of the origins of the spasms. Wilson feels another small stab of guilt about this; it's another reminder that he should have asked more questions, been more sensitive to House's refusal of the drug.

The voice file concludes with Dick warning him that House's recovery from the psychosomatic pain could take a lot of time, and with Wilson's response:

'_As long as it takes. Whatever it takes.'_

Wilson shuts off the recording and stands. He needs to check on House, and administer the antibiotic. Before he leaves the kitchen, he looks again at the timeline he'd constructed, and admits to himself that, while he still feels that much of the blame for this diagnosis lies with him, it's a relief to let go of _some_ of the guilt.

As he exits the kitchen, he reads over his notes and allows himself to feel the first faint stirrings of hope that they might get through this. He enters the living room and lifts his eyes from the page—and he sees House, sitting on the edge of the couch. House's face is unreadable, and his eyes—those mirrors that Wilson counts on for House's truth—his eyes are cold, so cold that a shiver goes through Wilson's body as the two men regard each other.


	26. Chapter 26: Disbelief

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Disbelief

"House." Wilson stands in shock, staring at the figure on the couch—and House stares back, as a brief, wordless communication passes between the two men who know each other so well.

_How much did you hear?_

_All of it._

"We… uh… obviously, we need to talk," Wilson manages to choke out.

"No, we don't," House states flatly. "All you need to know is that your shrink is right; you have nothing to feel guilty about."

"I… don't?" Wilson feels suddenly inarticulate, and curses his inability to form a clear thought.

"He's right because _you're_ wrong. You can't feel guilty over a diagnosis that's incorrect. We won't _have_ a diagnosis until after we do the muscle biopsy. Until then, the DDX is over; we won't be discussing it again until we have the results." House looks away from Wilson and takes a deep breath, composes his face. When he looks back, and speaks again, the coldness is gone from his eyes, the flatness from his tone.

"So, what's for breakfast? You were running the damned water in there for so long, I was beginning to think the kitchen was flooding. Tell me you were working on some complicated new pancake recipe; I'm starved!"

"Uh… I'll see what I can find. Glad you're feeling better. Let me get your meds, and then I'll see about breakfast. And then after we eat, we… umm… we can talk then."

"Yeah, maybe we can discuss the lunch menu!" House says heartily. "I was thinking maybe that weird salad you make, you know, the one without lettuce? Now whoever heard of a salad without lettuce?" House smiles and shakes his head.

Wilson doesn't know what to do. He'd been prepared for angry disbelief, not for this calm, complete denial. So he decides to just play it House's way for now, until he can figure out how to bring it up again. "Sure," he says, with an answering smile. "The lettuce-less salad sounds fine. But first, let me scrounge you up a pancake or two before we start worrying about lunch."

"Sounds fair," House says, lifting his legs carefully onto the couch, and grabbing the TV remote. There's a knock at the door as House begins to flip through the channels.

Wilson lets Cuddy in. Quickly, he whispers to her, "He knows. Overheard the voice file this morning. Refuses to discuss it."

Cuddy's eyes widen and she starts to ask a question. Wilson shakes his head at her and mouths '_later_.' So she sets her purse down and walks over to say good morning to House, while Wilson continues on into the kitchen.

But Wilson turns around and listens—as House obviously intends for him to do—when he hears House whisper a little too loudly, in a conspiratorial tone, "Hey, Cuddy; you _can't_ leave me alone with him! He thinks I'm _crazy._" House accompanies the statement with the universal gesture of insanity; his finger makes an exaggerated circle at the side of his head, as he looks, almost challengingly, at Wilson.

Intuitively, Wilson knows that this is House's way of telling him that he _hasn't_ completely rejected the new diagnosis, that it's up there somewhere in that brilliant mind, just perking around. House had been the one to declare the subject closed, but apparently there's a clause in the rules; House is to be allowed to joke about it. _If that's what it takes for you to accept the idea_, Wilson thinks, _I'll be more than happy to be your fall guy; make all the jokes you want._

So Wilson puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head slowly, and says chidingly, "House, you're playin' dirty, ya know." And he makes absolutely no attempt at all to keep either the humor _or_ the affection out of his voice. He heads off to the kitchen feeling real optimism.

Wilson's well aware that the worst of the trouble is yet to come—but for the first time since last night, he's starting to believe that they'll get through it, with their newly-formed little family intact.

_Yeah, I know there's gonna be fireworks. Big, bad fireworks. But I'm beginning to think that when the explosions are over and the sparks die down, he's gonna let me be there to catch him. And Cuddy. That woman'll catch us both; she's amazing._

Wilson stands in the kitchen a moment, trying to memorize this moment of hope, to fix it firmly in his mind; he knows that he'll need to recall this feeling during the days and weeks to come, that it'll help pull him through, so that he can pull House through. Then he takes a deep breath, pours coffee for House and Cuddy, and returns to the living room.

Cuddy's just finished drawing the blood for morning labs, and is trying, in vain, to conduct a proper assessment. House is giving Cuddy a hard time, and they're both enjoying every minute of it.

"Hey, Wilson," House asks him, "Does _heavy_ breathing count as _deep_ breathing with pneumonia? 'Cuz if it does, Cuddy's turquoise blouse is really more effective, medically, than those stupid aerosol treatments."

"Interesting theory," Wilson responds dryly as he sets the coffee tray on the table. "I'll have to look it up, but I'm pretty certain that the blouse is missing something in the bronchodilation department."

House leers at Cuddy's chest. "I assure you, Jimmy, that the blouse is missing absolutely _nothing_. They're both there, in all their awesome abundance. And all the heavy breathing is dilating _my _airways just fine."

"Good try," Cuddy responds with a stern look. "But I'm still gonna finish this assessment and get your neb ready. So you're going to have to train your eyes elsewhere while I go get the nebulizer."

"That's okay," House assures her. "The back view's almost as good as the front!"

"Incorrigible," Cuddy mutters as she leaves for the equipment. But she throws him a smile, and a wink, over her shoulder.

House reaches out to grab his coffee mug. "Wait," Wilson says. "Cuddy get your temp yet?"

"No, but I'm sure she's caused it to go up a degree or two," House says as Cuddy reenters. She rolls her eyes at him while Wilson hands him the thermometer.

"That should shut him up for a minute or two," Wilson says to Cuddy when House has the thermometer in his mouth. But they both wind up laughing, as House demonstrates that the inability to _talk_ has no effect on his ability to be just as suggestively eloquent in the expressions he aims Cuddy's way.

When the thermometer beeps, House hands it to Wilson and reaches for the coffee. "This is good," he says, "But actual _food_ would be better."

"Yeah, I'm working on that," Wilson says distractedly as he looks at the reading on the thermometer. "Maybe Cuddy _did_ raise your temp. It's one-oh-one. You feeling all right?"

"Just fine," House assures him. "Except for the malnutrition that's setting in. Sick people need food. Quit being a doctor, and go be a chef."

"I'm going. Pancakes coming up. Just take it easy, okay? Look at something a little less stimulating. Like that pay-per-view cable bill you've been ignoring all week. You don't pay it, porn-on-demand becomes nothing but a dim memory, ya know." Wilson returns to the kitchen to start breakfast as Cuddy gets the antibiotic running.

A few minutes later, Cuddy joins him in the kitchen. "What happened this morning? How'd he hear the file?"

"Not sure. He mentioned hearing the water running in the kitchen. Said he thought I was cooking. I was cleaning up some coffee. A _lot_ of coffee. Guess I didn't hear him over the water, and he just sat down to await his breakfast. Or something. At any rate, turns out he heard it, beginning to end. Told me not to feel guilty. Said it wasn't necessary, since the diagnosis is wrong. And then, he said we wouldn't _have_ a diagnosis until after the biopsy, and we'd discuss it then. And _only_ then. But I'm beginning to get the feeling that the moratorium on bringing it up applies only to _me_." Wilson rolls his eyes; the rules House creates can change as quickly as House's next whim.

"So what are you gonna do?"

"Play it his way, for now. Something'll give soon; he's already making jokes about it. And there's this," Wilson looks at Cuddy with happy surprise, as if it's just occurred to him; "There's nothing _physically_ wrong with the leg; he's gonna be okay!"

Cuddy nods at Wilson, tries to give him the smile he expects, but her own happiness is tempered. _Doesn't seem to me that either of them is really dealing with this yet, _she thinks. _I just hope they can hold it together until Dickinson gets here on Friday._

Cuddy takes the breakfast tray that Wilson hands her, puts a smile on her face, and returns to the living room.


	27. Chapter 27: Agonies

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Agonies

After Cuddy leaves for work, Wilson wonders if House's playful mood will continue, or if Cuddy's presence was simply a buffer for two friends who find themselves on opposite sides of a diagnosis.

But House continues to behave as if this morning's conversation had never taken place. While the low-grade fever has him a bit subdued, he still jokes with Wilson about Wilson's current losing streak in their most recent video poker contest. And he gets in a couple more digs about the new diagnosis, even suggesting that he might have 'psychosomatic sputum' in his lungs, thereby causing a 'conversion cough.' And Wilson has to laugh, because it's funny. _And_ because it's further proof that House continues to examine and consider the diagnosis, which feeds Wilson's hope of a positive—and peaceful—outcome.

At lunchtime, House eats just enough soup to keep Wilson's concern about his appetite at bay, and then challenges Wilson to another game of video poker. When it's clear that Wilson's losing streak is going to continue uninterrupted, House remarks casually, "Sure hope your luck is better Friday night."

_Of course; he heard us arrange the game on the voice file. Surprised he's decided to allow Dick's visit. Probably just wants to 'prove' that the diagnosis is wrong, but that's okay; it's better than I'd hoped for. I guess I thought he'd just refuse to let Dick come._

"I don't think it's gonna matter how good my luck is," he tells House with a grin. "Dick might even have _you_ beat with his 'bluff detection' skills; never could pull anything over on him in college. Reads people the way we read x-rays; analyzes every angle." Wilson doesn't miss the dark frown that this statement puts on House's face, but decides that House just doesn't like the possibility of losing at poker.

When the game ends, House decides to take a shower. But he looks tired, washed out from the fever. "Why not take a nap first?" Wilson suggests. "Give that temp a chance to go down on its own."

House shakes his head. "I feel okay; think I'd feel even better after a shower. Mind disconnecting me?"

Wilson decides not to argue; House _does_ seem to be doing all right. He's been making his trips to the bathroom today using only his cane, hasn't even requested the wheelchair at all. _And all he's gotta do is get safely to the shower chair; it's not like there's major physical exertion involved. Gotta stop worrying so much, start giving him back some control. Even more important now, to reinforce the trust._

Wilson disconnects the TPN, hands House his cane, and even refrains from saying, "Call me if you need me." He does, however, find plenty of things to do in the vicinity of the bathroom for the next twenty minutes.

When he hears the water shut off, he waits a few more minutes, then starts towards the kitchen—he'd prefer not to be accused of hovering when House comes out. But he's still close enough to the bathroom to hear the quiet, grudging call through the door, "Wilson…."

Wilson goes back towards the bathroom. "House, you okay?"

The door opens slowly, and Wilson notes immediately how heavily House is leaning on his cane. "Gonna just… go to the bedroom. Take… that nap now. Might… want the chair, though," House says. He's trying hard to keep the tone of his voice casual, but Wilson recognizes the strain behind the words, and the pattern of the pauses, and the pull of stress at the corners of his eyes.

"Just stay right there. Won't take me two seconds to get the wheelchair. I'll be right back," he assures House calmly.

As Wilson retrieves the wheelchair from the bedroom, he remembers the disconcerted look on House's face when he'd mentioned how well Dick could 'read' people. _If that comment made him work himself into this state, what the hell will happen on Friday? House likes to solve the puzzle; he's not going to be comfortable with being the puzzle._

Wilson hasn't had much time to decide how to handle the spasms in light of the new diagnosis. As he goes back to House, he's trying to figure out how much help House will accept, how much help he should offer.

House is gripping the doorframe with his free hand; the other is clenched around the handle of the cane, and the cane itself is trembling. So Wilson takes both of House's elbows in a firm, reassuring hold, and then lowers House carefully into the wheelchair, and moves quickly to the bedroom. He's thankful that he's able to transfer House to the bed before the spasm builds any more.

"Gonna nap now," House's voice is rough; he's using all his energy to try to sound as if nothing's wrong. "Shut the door on your way out, will ya?"

"Fat chance, buddy." Wilson almost whispers the words as he sits down on the edge of the bed next to House.

House's eyes close tightly. He's got both hands balled into tight fists at his sides to keep them from going to the muscle, and the beads of sweat on his forehead have nothing to do with fever. When he speaks, the word is pulled from him in anguished desperation. "_Please_."

Wilson knows how much that one word cost him, and the heaviness in his own chest makes speaking difficult. But he says the words in a firm, measured tone. "Nope. I'm staying, pal, and the deal's the same. Medical help, or the support of a friend, or both. Up to you."

House opens his eyes to look up at Wilson. He can actually _feel_ the compassion radiating from the empathetic brown eyes. House reminds himself that things are different now, that feeling cared-for doesn't suck, and in that moment, his resolve to hide the pain breaks. "Both, Jimmy… _both_."

Wilson's glad that he'd thought to pre-draw several 5mg syringes; he doesn't want to leave House's side right now, there's too much at stake. He retrieves the medication and a flush from the drug box, and sits back down at House's side to administer it.

Neither man speaks while Wilson pushes the med. House's eyes are closed; he's concentrating on breathing his way through it. And Wilson knows that no words will bring reassurance this time; he maintains a warm, respectful silence, offering comfort with the touch of his free hand on House's arm. Wilson finishes with the flush, sets the syringes down, and reaches for a pulse. He's surprised when House opens his eyes and clasps his fingers around Wilson's wrist.

"Why?" House asks, looking directly at him.

"Why what?" Wilson responds—but he thinks he knows what the question is, and he's afraid he doesn't have an answer for it.

"For years, you told me the pain was all in my head. You said I was just an addict. You wanted me to see a shrink. Now, you think you've had your diagnosis confirmed. Yet here you are. Treating my pain. Why _now_?" Although the spasm is ebbing, House's voice remains strained; this question—and Wilson's response—are important to him.

And as the last words leave House's lips, Wilson knows the answer. "For years, I watched what you were going through. That's all I did; I _watched _you suffer. Guess I… didn't wanna think about it too much. Twelve days ago, when you collapsed, I opened my eyes, for the first time, and…." He pauses, not quite trusting himself to go on.

Wilson bows his head, rubs a hand across his face, tries to compose himself before he speaks again. It's only a few words, but they're the most honest, most heart-wrenching words he'll ever speak. And the most difficult. So he takes a deep breath, and tells himself that he _owes_ this truth to House. But still, the next four painful words come out as two separate, broken sentences.

"I _saw_. You suffer."

And House understands. He knows that inside those four ragged words, choked out over a swallowed sob, are all the honesty that Wilson can offer, and the regret for what House has been through, and the guilt that Wilson's been dealing with.

House acknowledges Wilson's words with a brief squeeze of the wrist he still holds, and an oddly apologetic look in his eyes. Then he says, hesitantly, "It's real, you know. The pain."

Wilson doesn't even have to think about the answer to that. His voice is strong again as he answers, "I know. Whatever the cause, the pain is real. And it _will_ be treated."

"Glad we're on the same page _there_, anyway," House says, and although his voice is weak, he tries for a sardonic tone—he still wants Wilson to know that he disagrees with the diagnosis. So Wilson nods, acknowledging it.

But Wilson hears the relief behind the words; House knows that his pain's being taken seriously. And now that this hurdle's been crossed, and the tension has ebbed, he sees that the morphine and the relief are conspiring to lull House to sleep. But House is fighting it. He's still watching Wilson; he almost seems to be awaiting his permission to give in to it. So Wilson says brusquely, "Catch that nap now; you're a handful, ya know, and _I_ could use the break."

House smiles faintly, and closes his eyes. And all Wilson has the energy to do is shake his head in fond exasperation, and silently leave the room.


	28. Chapter 28: Sustenance

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Sustenance

House is sleeping soundly, and Wilson can tell he'll be out for several hours. His temp's gone down, his vitals are good, and—while his breath sounds aren't showing the improvement Wilson had hoped for—his O2 sats are low-normal.

The emotionally-charged discussion's taken a lot out of Wilson, too, so after ascertaining that House's condition is stable, and that he's sleeping comfortably, Wilson decides to take a nap himself. He sets his watch alarm for two hours, and stretches out on the couch.

Sleep comes surprisingly quickly, and it's peaceful and dreamless. When the alarm sounds, Wilson rises, and he's pleased with how rested he feels. He goes to House's room and finds him still asleep, still comfortable, so Wilson decides to forego the scheduled aerosol until he wakes up on his own. The only bothersome thing is that temp; a tympanic reading indicates that it's staying around a hundred. Wilson's glad that they'll have the blood culture results soon.

Wilson decides that now would be a good time to place his daily call to Dick, get him up to speed on what's been going on. The first thing he tells him is that House knows the diagnosis, and has, as expected, rejected it.

"But he didn't get angry, Dick. He just denied it completely. Even calmly. Good thing is, I can tell that he's _thinking_ about it. Making jokes, comments. And when his left leg spasmed today, he didn't reject my help."

"What help did you offer?" Dick asks.

"The usual. I let him know I wasn't gonna leave him alone, though I'll admit he tried to get rid of me in the beginning. I knew he needed the med, but I gave him the choice. We talked afterwards; he seemed relieved that we'll continue to treat the pain."

"I don't blame him there," Dick says. "As you know, the medical community is pretty evenly divided on that. Half feel that psychosomatic symptoms require no medical treatment. I don't agree, and I'm glad that you don't, either. That can be devastating for the patient. They're already having the veracity of their illness questioned, and then they're left to deal with very real symptoms on their own. I've rarely seen that have a good outcome."

"Yeah, well, there was a time, pretty recently in fact, where I'd have doubted the need for treatment, myself. Can't believe I ever thought that pain could just be ignored, if it wasn't caused by the body."

"A lot of people feel that way—even professionals who should know better. When I lecture on the subject, the example I use is a tension headache. Everyone can relate to that. And there's a lot of surprise when I tell them that, in the strictest sense, it's a psychosomatic illness. It's the brain, dumping its overload of stress on the body. And then the body manifests that psychological stress through physical symptoms. So it's a psychosomatic reaction, pure and simple. And would any of us deny ourselves pain relief for it?"

"Wish I'd heard your lecture years ago," Wilson says ruefully. "Might've saved a lot of unnecessary difficulty for House. But I know it now; no sense looking back, right?"

"Right," Dickinson responds, pleased that Wilson isn't sending himself on a guilt trip over this. "You sound a lot better yourself, James. Glad to know that you're handling this in a healthy way. That'll benefit you both. And you sound rested; the Ativan workin' out for you?"

"Yeah; gotta say it's a good idea, all around. It's enabling me to keep a more consistent attitude, feel in control of things. Most of the time, anyway. And it's having an unexpected benefit." Wilson chuckles, and continues, "Gives House the opportunity to play the responsible one once in a while, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, let's just say he's made it his personal duty to see that I don't miss a dose. And yeah, I'm almost caught up on my sleep. Hate to admit it, but it was a good idea. No telling what my frame of mind would be now, without it."

Wilson and Dickinson chat a bit more, set up a time for Friday night's planned poker game, then wind up the call. Wilson checks on House, who's still sleeping, and decides to give him another half hour while he tries to plan out dinner with their dwindling groceries.

When House does awaken, Wilson's alerted by the sound of coughing from the bedroom. He gathers the nebulizer and the aerosol supplies before heading in.

"Good sign that you're coughing," he says cheerfully to House as he enters. "Pneumonia's breaking up."

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson," House says snidely. "I missed the class on pneumonia in med school; 'preciate you filling that gap in my education."

"Any time." Wilson's in a good mood after his talk with Dick, and refuses to be fazed by the sarcasm. As he readies the neb, he says, "I'm gonna call the grocery store, put in an order. Any special requests?"

House's eyes light up. "Haven't seen a potato chip around here in weeks. Or a Twinkie."

"_Food_, House. Sustenance. Nutrition. Or did you miss that class too?"

"And those little chocolate donuts… you know, the ones with the sprinkles?"

"Okay, now that we've covered those life-threatening salt and sugar deficiencies you've been suffering from, how 'bout something from the protein group?" Wilson asks patiently.

"Beef jerky—great idea!" House proclaims.

Wilson nods. "Got it; fish, chicken, eggs. Good choices." He turns on the nebulizer and hands the treatment to House, who makes a face.

"I'm coughing on my own now; why are we still doing this?" House grumbles.

"Because the hydrocodone suppresses the cough. Because you're still running a fever. Because you're not ambulatory." Wilson stands there, arms folded, until House reluctantly bites down on the mouthpiece. "But most importantly, because it buys _me_ a few minutes of peace and quiet." He responds to House's predictable glare with a friendly smile, then leaves to place the grocery order.

He returns to the bedroom when he hears the neb machine shut off. As he moves the equipment away from the bed, he asks, "Given any thought to what you'd like for dinner? We should have actual food here soon."

"Yeah," House says. "Potato chips, drowning in onion dip, with a side of sour cream. Twinkies for dessert."

Wilson cocks his head at House. "Now _that's_ just uncanny! Baked chicken, brown rice, asparagus—exactly what _I_ was thinking, too! You got it."

And he goes to await the food delivery, smiling at his little victory as he blithely ignores the mumbling, and then the shouted, "Why do you bother to _ask_? More to the point, why do _I_ bother to _answer?" _that follows him down the hall.


	29. Chapter 29: Fight

**A/N: **_This chapter was interesting… House and Wilson actually wrote it; I was simply along for the ride—and the typing! (Yes, Angelfirenze, it's the Voices, the Voices!)_ mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Fight

House is picking unenthusiastically at his dinner when the phone rings. Wilson glances at the caller ID; the call's coming from the Diagnostics department at PPTH.

"You up to answering that?" Wilson asks. "It's one of your people; I'm supposed to be busy wishing I were dead."

House picks up the receiver, listens, and makes a face. "_Cameron_," he mouths to Wilson. "What are you doing there so late? Got a case?" House looks hopeful as he listens, and then his face falls. "I don't care _what_ Cuddy said about not bothering me with cases. Wilson's got the 'flu. 'Flu's boring…. No, of _course_ I wouldn't want you to defy Cuddy's order. You know me; I'm all about the rules." House sighs, resigned. "He's not doing well, no," House says into the phone as he looks at Wilson. "High fever, givin' him some really _crazy_ ideas. Seems to think all this is a game of 'Let's Pretend.'"

Wilson widens his eyes and then shoots House a dirty look. House's own expression is mischievous, but there's a bit of anger hidden behind the humor.

"Me? Just great…. 'Course I sound 'funny'; I'm a funny guy! No, not getting the 'flu. Tiring work, keepin' him oriented to the _reality_ of his illness."

Wilson's becoming annoyed with House's not-so-subtle digs, but he's also concerned; House looks flushed, and Wilson doesn't like the way he's breathing. "Get her off the phone; hang up now," Wilson whispers.

"He'll be fine; got a great doctor…. Not necessary; this is my bestest bud—don't trust anyone but me…. 'Course I'm not _insulting_ you, would I do that? This is _Jimmy_—I'll handle it. Wouldn't trust his care to Albert Schweitzer himself…. Look, Cameron, Cuddy's got us quarantined anyway. The _rules_, remember? Don't mess with the boss lady. Gotta go; I'm hearing some really unattractive retching noises, need to toss a barf bucket in his general direction. Bye." House hangs up the phone and begins to cough.

Wilson forgets his annoyance. "I think your fever's on its way up again; let's get a temp." When the reading is just over 101 degrees, and a pulse ox is 91 percent, Wilson frowns. "I'm gonna call Princeton General; we should at least have preliminary culture results by now."

The cultures show that the PICC line's clean, so Wilson decides to try a broader-spectrum antibiotic, in case the pneumonia's resistant to the ceftriaxone. He calls the Hospice pharmacy and places an order for cefepime—because House had initially shown improvement on the ceftriaxone, Wilson's thinking that they might be dealing with mixed organisms. And now, they could really use that sputum specimen.

"House, just talked with the lab over at PG; we're clear on the PICC. Gonna switch you to cefepime, but a specimen would really help. Think you can manage it?"

The fever's still on its way up, and House isn't feeling so great. "No," he answers, and closes his eyes.

"Let's try an aerosol, see if that helps bring anything up, okay?" House doesn't respond. Wilson sighs, and goes to collect the equipment and a sterile container. When he returns, House is feigning sleep.

"C'mon; let's try and get this done. Almost time for your evening neb anyway." House just flings an arm over his eyes and shakes his head.

Wilson's trying hard to be patient. "Look, if you're feeling that lousy, let's just get you into bed. I'll bring you some ibuprofen for the fever, and we'll try this in an hour or so."

House gives no indication that he's even heard Wilson, just tugs up a blanket and turns his head towards the back of the couch.

Trying to ignore the worry that's starting to twist in his stomach, Wilson picks up the tympanic thermometer. He moves the blanket away from House's face. "Lemme get a temp."

As he inserts the probe into House's ear canal, an arm flies up and knocks the thermometer from his hand; it clatters to the floor as Wilson, stunned, stares at House.

House turns around quickly and sits up. His fever-bright eyes are angry; his jaw is set, and his respirations are rapid. "Just get the hell away from me! Go away! I'm _sick_ of this, all of it. What are you worried about, anyway? Probably brought the pneumonia on myself, 'cuz I'm too dumb to know the difference between pain and emotions, follows that I gotta be too dumb to understand my own health, right? So it's all in my head, doesn't matter _what_ you do; gonna either get better or die anyway!" House, out of breath now, continues to glare at Wilson as he starts rubbing the left thigh almost frenetically.

"What's the matter with your leg?" Wilson tries to say it calmly; he needs to bring this situation down a few notches—this isn't good for House. But somehow, Wilson's concern and fear, his frustration, make the question come out sounding angry, challenging.

"Absolutely nothing!" House is starting to dig his fingers into the muscle. "Told ya, I'm just too _stupid_ to know I'm perfectly healthy. Let's just forget that I might be too _smart_ to create pain!"

Wilson's scared now; House's breathing is labored, he's clearly in pain, and he's showing no signs of even beginning to calm down. Wilson puts both trembling hands out, palms up, in a calming gesture—and House grabs his wrists and pushes him back.

The adrenaline's given House's meager strength a boost; Wilson falls backward, but the coffee table's behind him, and he winds up sitting down, hard, instead of falling. And Wilson snaps.

He forgets House's fragility, he forgets the building spasm, the labored respirations, the rising fever. He forgets his own medical training. He's not a doctor now; he's not even a rational human being. He's simply a frightened family member who's finally, completely, overwhelmed by it all, and angry that it's happening, and feeling powerless to stop it. So he lashes out.

"You're right; absolutely correct, as usual! The brilliant Dr. House has it _all_ figured out. We don't need to treat _anything_; we're just wasting our time, because you can just _will_ yourself well! Or dead. Let's not forget _that _option." Now Wilson's breathing rapidly too, and he's shaking as he stands. And the very small corner of his mind that's still rational tells him that he's not making sense, not helping the situation, tells him that he's over the top. And he doesn't care. Wilson's done trying to be diplomatic. His patience has worn thin, and he knows that they shouldn't be having this argument right now. But here they are, and he's gotta get House to start facing the truth.

"Don't try to tell me that you're too _smart_ to be having psychosomatic pain! That argument would be a lot more credible if I hadn't _seen_ you self-induce a migraine, just so you could tell yourself that a twenty year grudge was valid! Or fracture your own fingers to win a damned bet! And just last week you let yourself get to the brink of hypovolemic shock rather than admit that you were having trouble with your meds. Yeah, House, you're smart. And you're also self-destructive. Dangerous combination, buddy. Makes you a _prime candidate_ for psychosomatic pain, ya know that?"

House looks up from the left leg; his efforts to calm the spasm have been fruitless, and the pain's building quickly. But anger's driving him now, and he yells viciously, "Do us both a favor. Get the hell out of here! And you're right; friends like _you_, I don't _need_ to be holding onto twenty year grudges."

_He's right_, Wilson thinks. _Gotta get out of here; gotta calm down_. Wilson takes a step towards the kitchen, but suddenly sways, and grabs at the edge of a bookcase to keep from falling. He notes that his fingertips are tingling, he's dizzy, and then he realizes he's been hyperventilating. He forces himself to slow his breathing. As House, eyes narrowing, watches him, he makes his way unsteadily out of the room.

As Wilson enters the kitchen, another wave of dizziness overtakes him. He puts both hands on the counter's edge and leans over the sink. When he hears the sound of House's cane behind him, he hasn't the strength to turn, or stand upright, or even to speak.

"What's the matter with you?" House demands. When Wilson doesn't answer, House moves closer. Wilson lifts a hand to wave him away, to try to indicate that he's all right, but the hand's still shaking visibly, so he quickly lowers it back to the counter's edge, and then lowers his head to rest there too. He's dimly aware that House is moving around, but doesn't lift his head until House taps his arm.

House reaches over him to fill a glass with water. "Here," he says, thrusting the glass into Wilson's numb, unresisting fingers. When the glass falls from Wilson's hand and shatters in the sink, House sighs, fills a second glass, and sets it on the table. Then he sets down his cane and grabs Wilson's shoulders, propelling him to a chair.

Wilson doesn't try to gather the strength to resist; he sits. House hands him the glass again, then a small white pill—lorazepam. "Take it," House orders. When Wilson just looks at him blankly, House bends down until he's meeting Wilson's eyes. "Take. It." House waits until Wilson's swallowed the pill, then retrieves his cane and exits the kitchen.

Wilson sits there for fifteen minutes, twenty—he isn't certain. But once the quiet solitude and the medication do their work, and reason returns, he remembers the seriously ill man, the pain, the fever, the respiratory distress.

He goes rapidly to the living room, and feels a moment of panic when House isn't there. He heads to the bedroom, and stops short in the doorway.

House is lying on the bed, propped up on several pillows. He's clearly just finished an aerosol treatment, and on his bedside table sits the sterile cup—with a sputum specimen in it. And House is currently engaged in putting on the nasal cannula for the O2.

"Forgot to get the ibuprofen when I was in the kitchen," House tells him; his voice is matter-of-fact. "And of course, I had to disconnect the IV, so ya might wanna get that, too. If you wouldn't mind."

Wilson nods wordlessly and turns from the doorway. When he returns, he hands House the pills and reconnects the TPN without speaking. Then he sits in the bedside chair. "How's the leg?" he asks quietly.

"Fine. Must've been a false alarm."

"Good. That's… good." Wilson stands and picks up his stethoscope, and he's even more gentle than usual as he assesses House's breath sounds. He sees the way House's limbs have melted, unmoving, into the pillows, and how his head seems too heavy to lift, and he knows how much strength House had had to martial, to do everything he'd managed to do in the last half hour. And Wilson knows better than to try to thank him, or even to mention it. He ends his assessment with a hand on House's shoulder, and a question. "Can I… get you anything?"

House smiles, just a bit. "A doughnut would really taste good, about now."

Wilson looks at the frail patient, lying so still in the bed—this stubborn child, this loving friend, this concerned physician; this complex, frustrating man, who had willingly put Wilson's needs ahead of his own, more dire, problems tonight. House may have created the awful situation they'd both just suffered through, but he'd also done his damnedest to try to make it right again. And he had.

"I'll bet _two_ doughnuts would taste even better," Wilson says softly, and leaves to get him the treat.


	30. Chapter 30: Fever

CHAPTER THIRTY: Fever

Wilson returns to the bedroom with _four_ doughnuts, and two glasses of milk. House smirks at him.

"Just couldn't resist those amazing little multi-colored sprinkles, could ya?" House asks.

Wilson smiles back. "Well, actually, I was having one of those life-threatening sugar deficiencies myself. That, and I figure my cholesterol's probably too low."

"So they're _medicinal_ doughnuts." House nods sagely. "Now _there's_ a rationalization worthy of the great Gregory House himself; you're learnin', Jimmy."

"I'm trying, God knows, I'm trying…." Wilson mutters, as he bites into the doughnut. Then he notices that, while House is contentedly watching _him_ enjoy the junk food, he hasn't touched his own snack. "Hey, how come I'm the only one eating?"

"Antibiotic's messing with my stomach, I guess. Not as hungry as I thought I was. I'll eat 'em later." House sets his plate next to the milk on the bedside table, and leans back into the pillows.

Wilson regards him thoughtfully; skin's still flushed, lips are dry and chapped, eyes red-rimmed. "Fever's still high, too; ibuprofen hasn't kicked in yet. Hospice should be here shortly with the cefepime; by this time tomorrow, you'll be feeling well enough to win a doughnut-eating contest. And the lab courier'll be here soon; I'll get the blood now, then I'll let you rest a little while."

After he draws the blood, Wilson bags the tubes and the sputum specimen for the courier. The messenger from Hospice arrives shortly after the courier, and Wilson's anxious to hang the new antibiotic.

When he enters the bedroom, he initially thinks House is awake; he's turned his head towards the door, and is moving about in bed. But when Wilson turns on the light, it's evident that House isn't conscious; he's lost inside a fever-induced dream.

Wilson quickly hangs the cefepime and reaches for the tympanic thermometer. The 103.5 reading surprises him; it's been over an hour, and the Motrin should be working by now.

He sits cautiously on the edge of the bed; House is mumbling in his sleep, and Wilson doesn't want to startle him. He places a gentle hand on his arm, an arm so hot it's uncomfortable under his fingers. "House, wake up. House."

House's eyes open wide, dazed, and he tries to sit up.

"Easy, buddy, it's okay. Your fever's way up, gonna try some acetaminophen. I need to get a listen to your lungs, too. Just relax; it's okay." House is still struggling to sit up, and when Wilson notes the sibilant sound of his breathing, he stops trying to restrain him and instead helps him to a sitting position, propped against the pillows.

House is more alert now, but he doesn't seem to be fully oriented. "What's going on? Hot in here; hard to breathe." He looks around the room. "Can you open a window?" he rasps out.

"I'm gonna do better than that. Gonna get you some Tylenol, and some cool cloths. And let's go up to three liters on the O2, okay?" Wilson's voice is soothing, assured, and House has focused in on it, and on Wilson's face, and is nodding obediently at him like a kid, like Wilson has all the answers right now.

Wilson takes advantage of House's acquiescence to prepare an extra aerosol treatment. He hands it to House. "Breathe as deep as you can; we need to get some of that junk broken up. Already have the first dose of cefepime running; we'll be on top of this inside of twelve hours or so. Keep it up with the deep breaths; I've gotta go get the Tylenol. Be right back; you be okay?"

House nods and continues to inhale the neb, so Wilson hurries to the kitchen. He grabs a bowl, fills it with cool water and several washcloths. Then he gets the bottle of acetaminophen and returns to the bedroom.

House has dozed off, the mouthpiece still clenched in his teeth. The treatment's finished, so Wilson gently removes it and shuts off the machine. House stirs and opens his eyes, reaches for the pills that Wilson's holding.

"Let's wait just a minute on that," Wilson tells him. "Try and give me some good coughs first." He sets the medication down and reaches for his stethoscope. He listens carefully as House coughs, and finally Wilson looks up, satisfied. "Good job. Breathing easier now?"

House takes a few more breaths. When he speaks, he sounds more like himself. "Well, I'm not suffocating anymore, if that's what you mean. But it's still too hot in here."

Wilson hands him two Tylenol, and wrings out one of the washcloths. After House has swallowed the pills, Wilson offers him the cool cloth. House takes it, swipes it half-heartedly, weakly, across his forehead, then closes his eyes and lets his arm drop heavily. "That's better," he whispers, handing the cloth back to Wilson.

"Liar." Wilson smiles, rewets the cloth, and sponges it across House's face. When House doesn't object, Wilson then leans him forward and removes his T-shirt. He places one of the cloths around his neck and another over his chest, then continues to bathe his face and arms with the cool water.

"You make a damn fine nurse," House mumbles. "May not be much to look at, but you sure have that 'bedside manner' thingy down pat." He sighs, finally starting to feel comfortable.

"Did I hear that right? You're actually saying something that borders on _nice_? Must be delirious from the fever."

"Yup, that's it. Fever. Delirious," House agrees contentedly. The lines of his face have relaxed, and he hasn't even bothered to open his eyes.

"Too bad we can't find a way to get rid of the pneumonia, _keep_ the fever. You're _much_ easier to deal with when your brain's frying."

"Uh-huh. Easier. Fried brain," House parrots pleasantly.

Wilson shakes his head, both amused _and_ concerned. _A 'nice' House is… interesting, but I think I'd prefer a little griping right now._

When the fever finally breaks, half an hour later, Wilson doesn't need a thermometer to tell him the news. House is bathed in sweat, his teeth are chattering, and he's complaining loudly that it's too cold, and what moron opened the window?

Wilson hides the cane, and gets the wheelchair. "C'mon. A nice, tepid shower will make you feel better. I'll get your sheets changed, we'll do your meds, and you'll get some sleep." He disconnects the IV, removes the O2, and helps House transfer to the wheelchair. House is steadier than Wilson expected him to be, but still, the fever, and all his activity earlier in the evening, have left him without much energy.

When they reach the bathroom, Wilson chances asking House if he needs help. And House's "_Hell_, no!" which he accompanies with an indignant glare, lets Wilson know he's turned the corner. Just a little bit of sweet, docile House goes a very long way; Wilson's glad to have his sarcastic, cranky friend back. He's smiling as he heads down the hall to find clean linens.


	31. Chapter 31: Opinions

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Opinions

When House awakens at 6:20am, the fever's gone. He takes a few experimental breaths, and finds that his lungs are actually expanding again. He removes the nasal cannula, sits up and swings his legs cautiously over the edge of the bed. He puts the right leg through its usual morning paces; just the normal amount of discomfort. Nothing wrong at all with the left leg—for now.

House looks disdainfully at the left thigh. _Think you could behave yourself today? If Wilson and his shrink are right, I'm demoting you. You're not the boss anymore; just need to get my act together, get back in control. You're only a muscle; I'm the brains of this outfit, so just do your job and don't expect any special treatment._

He stands slowly, tentatively, putting most of his weight on the left leg and using the IV pole as a stand-in for his cane. _Wilson must've hidden the damned thing again; what'd I do last night? Oh, yeah…._

House locates the cane; it's leaning against the back of the bedside chair. Once he's got it firmly gripped in his right hand, and his left is curled securely around the handle of the IV pole, he heads quietly out of the bedroom. He's pleased that his steps are sure, but he moves slowly anyway; he doesn't want to disturb Wilson.

As he makes his way through the living room, House pauses for a moment. Wilson is sleeping soundly. His hair is mussed; some of it's sticking up, some is falling over his forehead. His arms are flung out at angles, and even his hands are open and relaxed, palms up. Vulnerable and so trusting, even in sleep.

House observes his friend silently. _You accuse me of being a kid; you don't look a minute over eight years old right now. Been dumping a lot on your shoulders lately; gotta say you're handling it pretty well—for a kid. _ He allows himself a small, fond smile as he continues on to the kitchen.

Once he's got the coffee brewing, House wonders if he could pull off making breakfast. He digs through the freezer, locates a coffee cake and nods with satisfaction. He turns the oven on to preheat, pours his coffee, and sits down to wait for the oven to warm.

Wilson's left his chart on the table, and after a moment, House reaches over and pulls the file closer. He pages through it, just skimming over most of the words, until he reaches the transcript of the first voice file. He reads it through quickly, shaking his head. Then he gets up, pours another cup of coffee, puts the cake in the oven, and returns to the table.

He turns the transcript back to the first page. This time he peruses it slowly, thoughtfully, paragraph by paragraph. Occasionally, he lifts his head to look towards where Wilson sleeps in the living room, and in his mind, he hears Wilson's words to him, the morning after he'd come home from this session:

"_They're sending the voice file. If you want to hear it, you can. House, no tricks to this. I'm not trying to psych you out. I went because I want to be the best friend I can be, and the best doctor, because you deserve that. I didn't say anything to him that you can't hear, no secrets I don't want you to know. I'm not ashamed that I did it, not ashamed of anything I said."_

"Gotta admire your honesty, Jimmy," House murmurs aloud. He isn't angry at the revelations he's just read, and he isn't sure why. Then, he realizes that he's _proud_ of Wilson, proud of his willingness to risk so much, to be so open, and all of it just to try to help House. _Made some mistakes in my life, big ones. But no one can accuse me of not knowing how to pick a best friend._

House is rereading the last lines of the voice file for the third time, '_This time, I don't lose my brother_,' and he's nodding his head slowly, lost in thought, when, simultaneously, the oven timer rings and there's a quiet knock at the door. He shuts off the oven and limps as quickly as he can through the living room.

Cuddy's surprised to see House open the door. "Everything all right?" she asks.

House puts a finger to his lips, and indicates Wilson, sleeping undisturbed by the knocking and the timer. "We had… kind've a rough night. Made 'im take an extra Ativan." House smiles ruefully. "I was a bad boy; upset him pretty good. Let's let him sleep it off," he says as he starts back towards the kitchen.

Cuddy sighs and shakes her head as she follows him. _What now?_

As soon as they enter the kitchen, Cuddy sees the file, open to the last page of the transcript. She looks quickly at House; he nods at her, but she can't decipher the expression on his face.

"Get yourself some coffee," he tells her, keeping his voice low. "There's cake in the oven if you're hungry." He sits, and as Cuddy moves around the kitchen, she sees him run his hand gently over that last page, those final words.

After she's filled a mug for herself, she cuts two slices of the coffee cake and puts them on the table, then takes a seat. "Want to talk about it?" She keeps her voice carefully neutral; the last time House had looked this discomfited was the evening he'd come to her office and pleaded for morphine. _Yeah, he's the world's biggest egoist; sometimes he's the world's biggest ass, too—but it hurts, somehow, to see him looking this… humbled._

"I yelled at him. Basically told him I wasn't buying into his diagnosis, and… uh… I pushed him, told him to leave…." House's voice, already low, trails off, and Cuddy has to lean forward to catch the last words.

"Pushed him? Literally? _Physically_?" When House nods, Cuddy presses her fingers to her temples and sucks in a deep breath. "And then?"

"Guess he… I dunno. He was upset; he kinda… snapped." House looks directly at Cuddy. "_My_ fault," he adds defiantly, as if he expects her to argue the point. "But I fixed it," he says quietly, and there's no pride in the statement; Cuddy feels as if it's more of a question, a plea for understanding.

Cuddy nods at him, and smiles kindly. "If you managed to get him to take an extra pill, _and_ get him to sleep in, you fixed it," she affirms for him, and she sees the relief on his face. "And what about this?" she asks, indicating the folder open in front of him.

"It was on the table!" House is defensive.

Cuddy's quick to reassure him. "House, that's not what I meant. They're _your_ records; you've every right to look at them. I just wanted to know if you're… okay with everything."

House nods, firmly. "Jimmy's… something, isn't he?" Cuddy can hear the awe in his voice, _and_ the pride, and she smiles as he continues. "Haven't made it easy on him, and he stuck around anyway. Points for loyalty, if not intelligence—I would've run the other way by now."

Cuddy, a sparkle in her eye, indicates the cane. "No, you wouldn't."

"Niice." House rolls his eyes, but immediately becomes serious again. "The thing I can't figure out is, if he really believes this thing with the leg is all in my head, why's he still willing to do the muscle biopsy?"

"Because you asked him to," Cuddy says simply. When House looks at her quizzically, she shakes her head at him. "Haven't you figured it out yet? He can't deny you anything. Even if he believes he's right, he's got so much respect, so much admiration for you, that _your_ opinion means as much to him as his own, or Dickinson's—maybe more. So he'll do as you ask. You said it yourself; the man's loyalty is unshakable."

"Yeah, well, maybe he _should_ question my opinion, once in a while; I don't know everything." House looks down and frowns.

Cuddy can't believe what she's just heard. "Are you saying you're willing to accept the new diagnosis?" she asks cautiously.

"No," House answers quickly. "Just saying I might be willing to… _consider_ it." House closes the folder and pushes it away from him, across the table. "But like I told Wilson, no more DDX until _after_ the biopsy," he says decisively.

Cuddy smiles to herself; Wilson's right—House's 'rules' about this diagnosis certainly change quickly. So she isn't surprised when his next statement indicates that he's closed the subject, at least for now.

"So, you heard about tomorrow night's poker game? Gonna give me a chance to send you home broke?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Cuddy tells him. "But it's only fair to warn you, I'm gonna beat the pants off you!"

Wilson wanders into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "What'd I miss?" he asks.

House grins. "Just the usual. Cuddy was trying to get into my pants again."

Wilson groans and sits down. "And I haven't even had my first cup of coffee yet," he moans as he puts his head in his hands.

House and Cuddy share a smile as Cuddy stands to get the poor man his coffee.


	32. Chapter 32: Spilled

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Spilled

House and Cuddy continue to banter as Wilson sips at his coffee, attempting to shake off the Ativan fog. As soon as he feels capable of forming a coherent sentence, he says, "I'm really enjoying the perverted 'George and Gracie' routine, but, uh… anybody get the morning labs yet? A sat reading? A temp?"

House scowls at him. "Don't you _ever_ go off duty? I'm doing great; even cooked breakfast!"

Wilson eyes the coffee cake dubiously. "Yeah, you and Sara Lee slaved away all morning."

"I'm hurt!" House pouts, and reaches over to grab the piece of cake Cuddy's just put in front of Wilson. "You don't _deserve_ this tasty slice of heaven," he says, taking a large bite out of it, and making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment as he chews.

"Appetite's back," Wilson observes dryly to Cuddy as she gently cuffs the back of House's head, and puts more coffee cake in front of Wilson. Both Cuddy and Wilson are more appreciative of House's antics this morning than he'll ever know—neither can remember the last time House had stolen Wilson's food; this is a milestone.

Cuddy sets down her mug. "I'll draw the blood and drop it off on my way in. I'll get a little extra; now that you're afebrile, we should get a repeat CBC."

"Vampire," House mumbles around another huge bite of cake. "Always after me for my bodily fluids. No, wait… that'd be an embalmer."

Wilson and Cuddy exchange 'the look;' House seems more like his old self this morning than at any other time in the past two weeks. Cuddy's even more pleased than Wilson is, because she knows he's read the transcript of the voice file. _Just wish I could let Wilson know what happened; I'll try and call him from the car._

After Cuddy leaves, House and Wilson move into the living room with their coffee. Wilson does the morning meds, and gets a quick assessment; he's satisfied with the results. "No fever, and you're maintaining a normal O2 sat on room air. Your lungs are even beginning to sound functional again."

"That mean we can dispense with those nasty little aerosols?"

"I said _beginning_ to sound good; you're still pretty junky."

"That's a _no_, then?"

"Yes. Uh, no. I mean _yes_, that's a _no_. A couple more days of aerosols won't kill you," Wilson says, successfully ignoring the fact that House is sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. He leaves to chart the vital signs and straighten up the kitchen.

When Wilson returns, he's carrying House's chart, and there's an odd, indecipherable expression on his face. He sits down on the couch and looks at House, but he doesn't say anything.

Finally, House can't take the strained silence anymore. "What's up? You look like you just ate something nasty. Wasn't my colossal coffee cake, I know that!" House grins, but Wilson doesn't smile back.

"Spill, Jimmy. What's buggin' you?"

Wilson takes a deep breath. "Speaking of spills. Seems to be a coffee stain on one of these files."

"So you're a little clumsy; not like it's an official chart or anything, anyway."

"I didn't spill any coffee. Not this morning. This is fresh."

"So _Cuddy's_ a little clumsy."

"Cuddy takes cream in her coffee. This," he sniffs at the stain, "is black. And _she_ cleans up after herself. Also, she has her own copy of this particular file."

"A doctor, a chef, _and_ a detective. Jimmy, you're a man of many talents."

Wilson is silent, and House still can't read his face. Then, he looks directly into House's eyes. "I'm sorry; I'm really sorry. Can… will you forgive me?"

House knows this isn't the time to joke around. "There's nothing to forgive," he says firmly.

"But I saw you that night, on the floor in your office. And I… walked away." He pauses, biting at his lower lip. "I shouldn't ask you to excuse what I did, though, when I can't condone it myself." Wilson looks shame-faced, and now he's having trouble meeting House's eyes. "I know I told you that you could listen to the session, that I wasn't ashamed of anything I'd said. And it's true. But I thought we'd listen to it together, that I'd… maybe get a chance to… talk to you about it first. I _am_ ashamed of what I _did_, that night."

"You did the right thing." House's voice is unexpectedly gentle. "What would've happened if you'd come in?"

Wilson thinks about this, and says with a faint smile, "You would have yelled at me to get out, and insulted me. And I would've ignored you."

House smiles too. "Preferable to passing a tear-soaked tissue back and forth. Which would have been our only other option." He looks at Wilson, and waits for him to meet his gaze. "You did the _right_ thing," he repeats emphatically, and watches as some long-held guilt evaporates from Wilson's eyes.

"And anyway," House continues cheerfully, "this transcript is great! Now I have an actual _doctor's_ note giving me _permission_ to give you a hard time. _Your_ shrink approved it; how cool is that?"

"What are you talking about?"

House leans over and takes the chart from Wilson's lap. He rifles through the transcript of the voice file until he finds what he's looking for. Then, doing a bad imitation of Sigmund Freud, he reads in a booming voice, "_He's literally programmed to fight you._"

Wilson stares at him, mouth open, while House continues happily, "That's like a blank check to star in my own episode of _Boys Behaving Badly_. Ya know, The Incredible Shrinking Dick may be an okay fella after all!" House grins maniacally at Wilson.

Wilson takes a deep breath while he tries not to smile. "Two things. First, call him 'The Incredible Shrinking Dick' tomorrow night, and I'll put the Parental Control lock on your porn channels—_all_ of 'em. Got me?"

"You're no fun," House sulks. Wilson crosses his arms and continues to wait. "Oh, fine," House says, "Got it; no nicknames. And the second thing?"

"Just think it's only fair to tell you that you may be 'programmed to fight me,' but I've recently programmed _myself_ to fight back," Wilson says smugly.

"And a damned fine job you're doing, too," House's voice is low—and serious. "Lucky for me," he adds even more quietly.

"One more thing about this," House says, and Wilson braces himself as House turns the transcript to the last page. "Your last line here? You know, the poetic, mushy one?"

House pauses as Wilson waits silently. "History doesn't always repeat itself, Jimmy. You remember what you said—and you _believe_ it. Take it to the bank, bro."

House closes the chart slowly, then hands it back to Wilson. "Hey, I ate all my breakfast, and yours too—that means I can have a Twinkie for dessert!" House grins, and Wilson grins right back.


	33. Chapter 33: Contemplation

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Contemplation

The rest of the day passes quietly; both men have a lot of thinking to do, and each senses that the other needs room, and time, to assimilate all that's happened. So they supply that to each other, as best they can.

House's condition is stable, and he's relatively pain-free, so when he says he'd like to do some reading in the bedroom, Wilson disturbs him only when medically necessary—and never comments that House has no reading material around him.

And Wilson closets himself in the kitchen with House's chart, which he's studying intently—he's so absorbed in what he's doing that he scarcely notices that House isn't trying to find ways to interrupt him at regular intervals.

Wilson rereads the voice file of his first session with Dickinson—but this time it's different; this time he reads it with House's eye, trying to view it the way House would.

He doesn't understand why House is so quick to forgive; Wilson, himself, feels that some of the things he'd shared with Dickinson are events and feelings that would hurt or upset House—and rightly so, Wilson concludes. He puts himself as fully as he can in House's place.

_How would it feel to read that my best—my only—friend has told a virtual stranger that he thought my pain was fake, all just a big game? To know that I'd suffered, needlessly, for months while that same best friend walked around smugly, thinking he was helping me? It's gotta hurt; wouldn't blame him for slamming that wall back up. And as if that weren't enough…._

Wilson's mind wanders back to House's office, and the night he'd walked away from his friend's suffering. _He says I did the right thing; I know I didn't. He knows about it now, and I guess he forgives me. Pity I can't forgive myself. _And the newly lifted weight of guilt settles again on his shoulders. _Still can't believe I did that to him; unforgivable. He's gotta be hurt._

Wilson would be surprised to learn that House's thoughts are mirroring his own; he'd be distressed to learn that some of House's earlier opinions are changing.

House leans back into the pillows and closes his eyes, allowing the scene to play in his mind. _That was the day Wilson and Cuddy both told me that I was allowing the pills to run my life. Yeah, they knew how to phrase it, didn't they? Knew I'd have to prove 'em wrong; nothing—no one—runs my life but me. So I proved it, didn't I? _House's hand slams down on the bed in frustration, but he's unaware he's even made the motion.

_Wilson saw me fail. And he saw me cry. Bet that fed his 'need' fixation; he's probably still glowing over that one. And this whole thing with the new pain being fake—sure does validate him! Yeah, he's hiding it well, but he always has managed that. Saves the big secrets 'til he needs to pull me down a peg…._

And so House continues down this road until he's reached the old, comfortable conclusion—the inevitable destination of such thoughts. _Don't need him; don't need anybody. Got enough pain; all this messy 'caring' stuff just adds to it. May not be able to do anything about the physical garbage, but I sure as hell can put a stop to the rest of it._

House imagines he can literally _hear_ the sounds of his strong, safe wall being rebuilt, and the image makes him smile, while the sounds help to drown out the heavy, resigned, lonely feeling that's being reborn in his chest, clamoring loudly for his attention.

The apartment's _too_ quiet this afternoon, as the men struggle separately with their demons, each, in his own dark solitude, never guessing what the other is going through.

And neither would be able to guess how it'll end.

Wilson glances at his watch: 4:20pm. He's let himself get lost in House's chart, lost track of the time; he needs to go check on House, do an assessment. But he knows that first, he has to find a way to hide what he's feeling, these negative emotions he'd thought were finally fading. So for now, he just pushes them away. _I'll pull a 'House,' just hide 'em, deal with 'em later—or not._

House has been struggling with the left thigh for almost five minutes when Wilson enters the room. House glances up, defiantly, and by sheer force of will manages to remove his hands from the leg, and compose his face. But Wilson isn't fooled.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Nothing I can't handle. Almost over, anyway," House lies.

Wilson reaches for a pulse. "No it isn't, not unless you've recently had a cardiac transplant, and they used a hummingbird's heart."

"I said I'll handle it." House is starting to sweat. He reminds himself of his resolve to be safe, to not _need_, and it gives him the energy to push Wilson's hand away from the edge of the blanket.

_What's going on, House? Thought we were long past all these games. _"Just wanna check it. That a problem?"

"If I need a doctor, I'll let you know." _And if I need a friend, I'll remind myself of that transcript until the need passes._

Wilson thinks fast. "Okay, then. I need you in the living room. I'd like to change the dressing on the PICC line; light's better in there, and I want a good look at the site."

House thinks briefly of trying to fake it, then reluctantly concedes that he can't. He tips his head back and closes his eyes. "All right. Yeah, it's building. Spasm started about five minutes ago." They both know that any chance of aborting the spasm is gone now; it's gone on too long, and now it's going to have to play out.

"No meds," House says as he allows his hands to return to the cramped muscle.

"No meds," Wilson agrees, pulling the blankets back.

So Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, gently pushes House's hands out of the way, and begins to work the muscle. He tries to think of something, anything to say, that might distract House from his pain.

"Something you need to know, about that night I saw you in your office," he begins. He doesn't have to look at House; he's concentrating on the leg. "I admire what you tried to do, what you did. You kept trying; you didn't let it beat you down. You were in agony, but you kept going. Don't think I've ever met anyone as strong as you, don't think I ever will again." And as he says the words, Wilson realizes that they're all true.

Wilson continues. "And that's why I know that, whatever turns out to be wrong, you're not gonna let it get you. Gotta thank you, House. It's a real privilege to be allowed to be a part of that kind of… courage."

Wilson's focused completely on the knotted thigh; his own hands are cramping and uncomfortable from the work, but he won't acknowledge that. He believes what he's just said to House—to offer assistance to this man is an honor.

_Damn you, Jimmy. Doesn't matter how strong I build the wall, you find a chink in it, and barrel on through. Hasn't even seemed to matter to you that I don't deserve it. _And so, without even being aware of it, Wilson's taken House's afternoon of careful thought and dismantled both it, and the brand new wall it had created.

House notices the tight squint to Wilson's eyes, the occasional wince as he moves his fingers over the muscle, and the way Wilson's ignoring his own discomfort in an almost desperate attempt to bring relief to House.

"Yeah, well, as long as we're playing _True Confessions_ here, got one of my own. I'm grateful that you left that night. Doesn't matter _why_ you left; you gave me my privacy. That's one thing about you I can always count on; you understand the importance of a man's dignity. And you're willing to risk a lot to protect it. You risked _everything_ this time around, in the name of my… dignity. No small thing, that." And as he speaks these words, House is acknowledging to himself the truth of them, and fully realizing the sacrifice that Wilson's made.

"Whatever you _thought_ your reasons were doesn't matter, 'cuz we both know why you _really_ left. I'll deny I ever said this, but don't know what I'd do without you—always lookin' out for me even when you think you're not."

_Damn you, House! Even making my guilt sound altruistic…. But…. You do get it, don't you? _And House will never know that Wilson's guilt has finally dissipated into a formless, thinning cloud that promises to disappear for good, once House is healthy again.

Wilson feels the muscle relax under his hands, and hears House's relieved sigh. He smiles up at House, and begins to lift his fingers, but they're stayed by House's hands.

"The heat." House says, by way of explanation. "Feels good," But he doesn't move his own hands from atop Wilson's; instead, he gently rubs the cramps from the tired, aching fingers.

"Yes," Wilson confirms, and smiles. "It does." There's something he's been denying himself all afternoon; now he grants himself permission. He takes his first full breath in what feels like forever; he allows himself to relax.


	34. Chapter 34: Nerves

**A/N: **_Pure and total fluff—so damned fluffy, in fact, that if you don't read it you'll miss absolutely nothing, plotwise. And fluff is **so** not my strong suit :( But hey, the way things have been going around here lately, I feel lucky to be able to give you kids anything at all! Next chapter won't be up 'til Monday, probably early evening. _mjf

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Nerves

On Friday morning, Wilson awakens already on edge. It doesn't take him long to figure out the cause of his uneasiness; tonight's the poker game, and there's no way he can prepare for what House might do or say.

He's worried about House's condition, too; he's anticipating that, sometime today, there's gonna be a terrible spasm in the left thigh. House is only now showing strong signs of recovery from the pneumonia, and his general recovery is going well. Wilson's afraid, though, that a few more severe attacks might steal the strength House has fought so hard to gain.

Wilson has seen his theory about the psychosomatic pain confirmed; things that cause House to feel insecure or unsettled do, indeed, bring on the spasms—and what could make House _any_ more disquieted than knowing he'll be going toe-to-toe with a very perceptive psychologist tonight?

Wilson heads into the kitchen to get the coffee on. As he works, his worry about Dick's visit grows. Finally, he decides to postpone the game for a week, give House more time to get over the pneumonia, more time to adjust to the idea of the new diagnosis. He pours his coffee and decides to call Dickinson's office now, leave a message on his voice mail.

Before he can place the call, House comes into the kitchen. He's walking confidently; he's gotten quite adept with the cane-and-IV pole combination, and he's got a big smile on his face. "Lookin' forward to tonight; not often I get to psych out a psychologist!"

As Wilson grabs another mug and pours a cup of coffee for House, he wonders if House is referring to the poker game—or to the diagnosis of psychosomatic illness. "Yeah, well, about the game. I was thinking of putting it off for a few days, give you a chance to really get over the pneumonia."

"Uh-uh! I'm ready. Don't need healthy lungs to play poker; just luck and brain cells. What I'm lacking in the luck department, I more than make up for in brains. Matter of fact, got so many brains, I might be able to loan _you_ a few extra cells tonight; wouldn't want you to say I don't share the wealth!" House smirks at Wilson.

Abandoning his plans to put off the game, Wilson eyes House appraisingly. His high spirits seem to be genuine, and maybe it'll do him some good to have a little distraction, to do something where not everything's focused on his 'patient' status. And to that end….

"Hey, I'll make a deal with you. Eat well at breakfast and lunch, I'll let you ditch the pump for the evening. And if you'll throw in a nap this afternoon, _might_ even let you stay up past your bedtime. Of course, _that'll_ depend on how badly you're beating me." Wilson grins at House as he speaks, but he's still feeling uneasy.

"Deal," House says. "But only if _you'll_ agree to keep the doctoring stuff down to a minimum. Hard to maintain my 'poker face' with a thermometer hangin' outta my mouth; kinda ruins the look I'm going for."

Wilson smiles and takes the bait. "And what look would _that_ be?" he asks.

"Tough guy. Intimidating. Kinda crazy. Jack Nicholson in _Cuckoo's Nest."_

"Ahh, type-casting, got it."

"Hmmph." House settles himself at the table. "What's for breakfast? And if I have to eat_ all_ of it, it'd better not involve past pigs, future chickens, and the secretions of contented bovines."

"House, if you don't want bacon and eggs, just _say_ so. If you don't want milk, just pour it down the sink when you think I'm not looking, like you usually do."

"It's just that that's _so_ yesterday. And the day before. _And--"_

"Hold up there," Wilson interrupts the whining litany. "As I recall, _you_ made what passed for breakfast yesterday, no nutrition involved. No actual _work_ involved, either.

"Okay then, it's so the day _before_ yesterday. And the day--"

Wilson sighs loudly. "Macadamia nut pancakes it is."

An hour later, Wilson hears the two words that never fail to make his blood run cold.

"I'm bored." House shuts off the TV and tosses the remote onto the coffee table.

_Insert appropriate danger music here_, Wilson thinks. "Why don't you play your new video game? Or brush up on your poker skills?"

"Beat level fifty eight—seen the naked girls; the thrill is gone. And I already have an unfair advantage over the rest of you unfortunates in tonight's game, just by virtue of being me. 'Cuz I'm just that good." House grins and waggles his eyebrows at Wilson. Then he leans his head back and addresses the ceiling. "_I'm bored!_" he repeats loudly.

"Some day, I'm going to figure out just exactly _how_ you manage to make those two small words sound like such a _big_ threat. In the meantime, in the interests of world peace and domestic safety, I guess it's time to bring out the big guns." Wilson goes to the coat closet and returns with a flat package, which he hands to House. "Here. This should keep you busy for, oh, about a hundred and seventy four minutes. Not that I know exactly."

"_SpongeBob SquarePants' Absorbing Favorites!_" House's grin threatens to take over his face. "Wilson, you've been holding out on me! How long have you had this?"

"Got it just after the last time you uttered those two dreaded words, and I came home to find you'd dismantled the microwave to find out why the food gets hot but the plates stay cool."

"Hey, check out this bonus feature! Ripped Pants Karaoke! This is just too awesome! Can ya bring me that old scrub brush—gotta have my microphone!"

Wilson conducts the rest of his day to the soundtrack of SpongeBob, Patrick, and Gary the meowing snail. Every once in a while, he has to quell the overpowering urge to strangle Gary—or maybe House, but that might involve jail time. Then he reminds himself that this is better than having to rescue his blow dryer from the freezer, where House _claimed_ to have left it (plugged in, turned on, go figure) "to defrost a TV dinner in a real big hurry."

So, as House begins his seventeenth rendition of "I Ripped My Pants," (but who's counting?), Wilson swallows his fourth ibuprofen of the day (but who's counting?), gazes longingly at the bottle of Ativan, fixes a cheery smile on his face, and goes into the living room to toss the DVD player—_or_ House—out the window.


	35. Chapter 35: Bluff

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: Bluff

When Cuddy comes in after work, she's astonished to find House lying quietly on the couch, intently perusing a medical journal. Wilson had called her no less than twice today, to fill her in on the antics of hyped-up House, and she'd expected that by now he'd be perched atop a bookcase, painting the living room. When House simply glances up at her entrance, nods seriously, politely, and returns to his article, alarms start going off in her head.

"What'd you _do_?" she asks suspiciously.

House looks up from his journal and sighs in resignation. "How was _I_ supposed to know that when Wilson said 'take a nap,' he meant 'go to sleep'? He should have been more exact."

Cuddy lowers herself into a chair, and breathes deeply a few times. Smiling sweetly at House, she asks, "And how did _you_ translate it?"

"The only logical way, of course. Figured what he _meant_ was entertain myself quietly for a while. So I did. If I'd _known_ that my post on the "_Life with Your Chihuahua_" board could be traced back to his laptop, I _sure_ wouldn't have… umm… proposed the idea that _death_ with my Chihuahua, dear little Toto, could be an exciting alternative. Guess I kinda gave 'em the impression that I was gettin' ready to take myself out, and my little doggie, too."

"Let me make _absolutely_ certain I'm following you, here," Cuddy says slowly. "You… threatened suicide. And… uh… Chihuahuacide. In a _public forum_. On the _Internet_. Posing as _James Wilson_, _MD_, formerly respected oncologist." Cuddy's fixed smile threatens to crack.

House tries unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. "Think those weirdos were more upset about the _dog_ biting the big one. But Wilson was _really_ good with the cops who showed up, somehow managed to convince 'em some total _idiot_ had unauthorized access to his laptop."

"Yeah." Cuddy, still smiling, observes dryly, "Sometimes the _truth_ can be a hard sell. And how did Wilson make the nice officers go away?"

"Not real sure about that. Took an awful long time to get rid of 'em, though. _Do_ know it involved a hell of a lot of pointing at me. And whispering. _And_ laughing. Kinda hurt my feelings—good thing I'm not paranoid."

"And then?" Cuddy asks with admirable patience.

"Then they tore up their little Baker Act forms with his name all over 'em, and they told Wilson he needed to do a better job of supervising his kid, and they all laughed some more. Except Wilson; if I didn't know better, I'd say _he_ was crying. And then they left."

"And Wilson? After they tore up the involuntary commitment papers, and you made Daddy cry, and the big, bad men went away, what did Wilson do next?" Cuddy has a sudden mental image of Wilson, curled up at this very moment under the bed, muttering gibberish and playing with sharp, shiny objects. And whimpering.

"Got a little _pissy_ with me, can you believe it? Said, '_Couch. Now. Don't move._' He's been in the kitchen ever since. Figured I'd better do as he says; wouldn't want him to get upset and off the stinkin' pup, or anything."

Cuddy represses the urge to smack the grin off House's face. As she stands, she says, "Allow me to reiterate Dr. Wilson's orders. Don't. Move."

Wilson has his back to her, chopping vegetables, as she enters the kitchen. He doesn't pause in his chopping, but the sound of the knife as it strikes the cutting board becomes louder, more emphatic. "House, I've got a weapon. Lucky for you, I'm a doctor, so I know right where the jugular is; you won't suffer. Much." He sighs wistfully. "But enough of my fantasies; on a _much _more realistic note, if you don't get back on that couch _right now_, I'll arrange it so you never see a computer again," he says in a clipped voice.

"Relax, it's me," Cuddy says as he turns around. "Hard day?" she asks sympathetically.

"You don't know the half of it. Should've let 'em take me away to a nice, padded room, make _that--_" He points emphatically in House's direction, "a ward of the state. But even New Jersey doesn't deserve that, they've got enough toxic waste problems as it is…." he mumbles. Wilson gives her a tired smile. "Only bright spot in all this is, I would've bet big bucks that the left leg was gonna give him hell all day. Not even a twinge, though. Appetite's been good, no fever. Looks like he might actually be improving—if I don't kill him first."

"Yeah, death might mess with the improvement curve—not that I'd blame you. Not that _anyone_ would blame you." Cuddy shakes her head in wonder that Wilson still appears sane, and that House is still in one piece. "Need any help getting ready for the game? What time is Dr. Dickinson supposed to be here?"

Wilson hands her a couple of bags of chips, and two large bowls from the cabinet. "Just dump these in the bowls, will you? Dick should be here any time now."

Cuddy readies the snacks while Wilson braves the living room to ascertain that the table's set up and everything's ready. He studiously ignores House's imploring, apologetic looks, addressing him only to say, "You'd do well to remember a few things. You're still trapped in this apartment with me for at least a couple of weeks. And GameBoys and DVDs and laptops can _all_ be disappeared very easily."

He fixes House with a steely gaze. "And remote controls fit quite nicely into garbage disposals. They make a _really_ cool sound when they die, too. _You_ taught me that one. At _my_ house. With _my_ remote."

"Did you know that the AMA is currently recommending federal regulation of the salt in processed foods?" House asks indignantly, eyes fixed on the journal in his lap. "Man, how's _that_ for Big Brother? They can't get away with that; we should start an email campaign."

"House--" Wilson's next threat is cut off by a knock at the door. With one last warning look, Wilson goes to the door.

"Hi, Dick. Glad you could make it!" He turns to Cuddy, who's just come out of the kitchen. "This is Lisa Cuddy," he says, and smiles when his two friends seem to take an immediate liking to each other as they introduce themselves.

Wilson glances reluctantly toward the couch, from which exaggerated throat-clearing noises are emanating, at steadily increasing volume. "And _that_," he says dryly, "would be House."

House smiles widely, while Wilson holds his breath. "Well, if it isn't The Incred--"

"Now _where_ did I write down that top secret cable code?" Wilson wonders loudly.

"Good evening, Dr. Dickinson, or may I call you…." There's an ominous pause, during which Wilson takes the opportunity to graphically pantomime a knife, slicing violently across a neck. "…Dick? 'Cuz there seems to be a list of things I _can't_ call you…. So _nice_ to meet you. Forgive me for not getting up, but Daddy has me grounded to the couch until further notice. No sense of humor, I'm afraid," House says formally to Dick, while grinning, challengingly, at Wilson.

Wilson ignores the challenge. "Okay, House, restriction's lifted—for now. You may move to the table."

They all watch as House grabs his cane, and stands with energy and enthusiasm. "C'mon everyone, need to get started! Wilson's been buggin' me for months to take his money off his hands, and I plan to oblige 'im tonight."

"At least when I _lose_ it to you, I know it's gone. That would be different than when I _loan_ it to you, and I'm forced to suffer under the delusion that I might someday see it again," Wilson observes.

"Delusion? That would be _your_ area of expertise, wouldn't it, Dick?" House asks heartily. "Might wanna have a little chat with Jimmy about those delusions of his; they can get _really_ tiresome."

Cuddy and Wilson exchange an eye roll as they all seat themselves at the table, while House and Dickinson smile pleasantly at one another.

For the first hour, things go smoothly. House is charming, funny, and manipulative—just as Wilson had expected him to be. Dick seems taken with House's wit, amused by his jokes.

And House himself is, incredibly, coming off as the very picture of mental health; he is, by turns, self-deprecating and confident, serious and light-hearted, pensive and outspoken—and all at the appropriate times. Worse, Dick appears to be buying into it.

When all the talking and laughter take a toll on House's lungs, and his breathing becomes noticeably shallow and rapid, Cuddy suggests a break for an aerosol treatment—and House immediately agrees, throwing in a compliment about her medical perception skills. Wilson and Cuddy widen their eyes at each other. Cuddy goes to the bedroom to retrieve the nebulizer, then meets Wilson in the kitchen, where he's preparing the aerosol.

"There's too much bluffing going on in this game—and none of it has to do with cards," Wilson tells her grimly. "Time for Plan B."

Shortly after the game resumes, Wilson mentions that he's hungry, and he's going to check on the deli order he'd placed earlier for dinner. When he returns from making a call in the kitchen, he appears upset. "Deli's backed up; Friday night rush, they said. Delivery'll be at least an hour, probably more." He turns to Cuddy. "Wanna run down there with me? We'll pick it up ourselves; it's the only way I can guarantee dinner before midnight."

"Sure; just let me grab my purse," Cuddy says.

"That okay with you two?" Wilson asks House and Dickinson.

"Absolutely," House answers. "It'll give Dick and me a chance to swap stories about the phenomenal Boy Wonder!" House grins like a kid let loose in an amusement park, while Wilson groans inwardly and wishes he'd also come up with a Plan C.

As soon as they're out the door, House turns to Dick. "Gee, Mommy and Daddy leaving me alone with the sitter—nothing obvious _there_. Gotta apologize for Jimmy; he's usually more clever than that."

Dickinson smiles. "He's gone to great lengths to help you," he says mildly.

"Yeah, and I'm cool with most of it. But _this_ isn't necessary—we both know that, don't we?" House shifts uncomfortably in the chair; he appears unsteady, suddenly weary.

"Would you like to move over to the couch?" Dickinson suggests. "You've been pretty much confined to bed for a while; sitting up for so long can be tiring, can't it?"

"What is it with shrinks and couches, anyway?" House asks rhetorically. "No, thanks. I'm just fine here." He picks up a deck of cards and begins to shuffle them repeatedly.

"I imagine, after all the trouble he went to, to leave us alone, that James will be pretty disappointed if we don't discuss your diagnosis," Dick says casually, leaning back in his chair as he watches House play with the cards.

House looks up, and there's a brief flash of resentment in his eyes. "Yeah, well, _James_ will just have to get over it. It's not _my_ diagnosis anyway. As I recall, it's _yours_."

"Nope, not mine," Dick responds pleasantly. "The doctors who analyzed your test results were the ones who reached that conclusion. I simply concurred."

"I read the transcript of the voice file. _You_ were the one who planted the idea in Wilson's head," House accuses, with barely suppressed anger.

"If you read the transcript, then you're aware of the importance of acknowledging changes in self-perception. We're concerned, at this point, that perhaps you had to cope with severe pain for _so_ long that your brain's just gone into overdrive, trying to control something that's not there anymore. Understandable, given the circumstances."

"Problem's not in my brain; it's in my leg. But thanks for sharing," House says coldly.

House isn't even aware that he's been rubbing at his left thigh for a couple of minutes, that he's now gripping the muscle—but Dickinson is.

"Leg bothering you now?"

House removes his hand from his thigh as if it's been burned. "No!"

"It's okay; nothing to be ashamed of. Can I do anything to help?"

_Screw him! _House goes back to rubbing the clenched muscle. "You can leave me the hell alone," he says quietly, dangerously. As the cramping builds, he digs his fingers into the leg and concentrates on ignoring Dickinson's presence.

Several minutes later, when they hear Wilson and Cuddy at the door, House says through clenched teeth, "Wanna help? Keep your mouth shut." He wraps both hands as tightly as he can around the thigh, looks up and smiles at his friends. "Hope you two had time for that steamy make-out session!" he says brightly.

Wilson lifts his eyes skyward, but makes no comment as they head to the kitchen with several bags of food. "I'll be right out with the salads," Cuddy says.

When they're alone again, Dick leans towards House. "At least let me tell them that you're in pain. Please."

In just the few seconds of pretense, House's pain has increased; he can't spare the energy to look up. "No," he hisses, and as Dick watches, the color drains from House's face, sweat breaks out on his forehead, and there's a drop of blood on his lower lip, where he's bitten through the skin. He looks as if he might topple from the chair.

Dick shakes his head and stands to go to him as Cuddy returns to the living room. She takes in immediately what's happening, and as she moves to House's side she calls urgently into the kitchen, "Wilson, we're gonna need at least 5mg of morphine in here, stat!"

As she speaks, Cuddy kneels by House, curling her fingers around his wrist, and Dick places a hand on his shoulder; House's eyes are shut tightly, and he's holding his breath—he isn't even aware that they're there.

When Cuddy notes the thigh muscle jerking involuntarily, violently, and sees that House has actually bitten through his lip a second time, she shouts, "Make it _10_ milligrams—_now_, Wilson!"

Instantly, there's the startling clatter of metal, followed by a loud crash, in the other room, and even House opens his eyes and raises his head towards the sound. It's immediately followed by groaning. Cuddy and Dick rush to the kitchen.

Wilson's lying on the floor looking dazed, and the stepstool's lying on top of him. But before Cuddy can reach him, House bursts through the entrance and shoulders the other two aside. He drops his cane and kneels by Wilson, who's trying to sit up while he kicks his legs free of the stool. A large stainless steel platter is on the floor next to him.

House places his hands firmly on Wilson's shoulders and restrains him. "Don't move," he orders, before looking up at Cuddy. "Penlight," he barks at her. She grabs it from the back of the counter and hands it to him.

House sets the penlight aside, and attempts to force Wilson to lie flat. As House pushes him down, Wilson's head strikes the floor with a soft thud, and he looks up at House, surprised and confused.

"What'd you do _that_ for?" he asks, attempting to sit up again.

"Jimmy, I _said_ stay still," House says softly to Wilson, pinning his shoulders to the floor. "Don't move your head."

Wilson stops struggling, and sighs in resignation. Obviously, House isn't going to give up until he's conducted his exam, so there's no sense in pointing out that this whole thing is a waste of time. He lies quietly, answering the silly questions while House does a neuro check, but he draws the line when House mentions stabilizing his neck; he's feeling a little less dazed now, and a lot more embarrassed. "House, I'm _fine_. I didn't hit my head, at least not until _you_ hit it for me, and I didn't lose consciousness. Will ya please let me up?"

House frowns at him, but he removes his hands from Wilson's shoulders. He rechecks his pupils with the penlight, and carefully manipulates his neck, before nodding at him. "You were lucky," he says, still frowning in disapproval as Wilson sits up.

House uses the edge of the counter to pull himself upright, and grabs his cane. Then he reaches a hand down to help Wilson stand.

"Any dizziness? Pain? You didn't re-injure your wrist, did you?" House is still assessing Wilson intently; he isn't aware that Dick and Cuddy have shifted their attention from Wilson to him. "You need to sit down." He puts his left hand under Wilson's elbow and guides him steadily to a chair.

"Will you stop fussing, please?" Wilson asks House. "I'm fine; just feeling foolish, and you're making _that_ symptom worse! Guess this is what happens when you fall in an apartment full of doctors." Wilson smiles sheepishly, then he turns to Cuddy. "I was trying to reach that big platter. And I thought when you said you needed morphine immediately, that House was…." Wilson realizes that both Cuddy and Dickinson are staring at House, and now, puzzled, he turns to look at him as well. "Weren't you spasming?" He sees the bloodied lower lip. "A _bad_ one?"

House looks down at his leg as the others make note of his posture; he's standing straight, scarcely any weight on the cane. He raises his head; all three of them are observing him with varying degrees of compassion and professional fascination—he feels suddenly like a lab rat, trying to navigate a particularly tricky maze.

"I've never seen him in so much pain," Cuddy says quietly, almost to herself. She looks over at Wilson. "And then, when you fell, it just…."

"Medical instinct," House says firmly, as they continue to watch him. "Or… adrenaline." House's voice is less assured now; are they looking at him with _pity_? "Spasm was just… a false alarm…." This last has the air of a desperate question, and House answers it for himself when he reaches up to wipe his lips, and his hand comes back smeared with his own blood.

Wilson stands slowly, gently places a hand on House's shoulder. He feels his friend lean heavily into the comfort, for just a moment, before House straightens abruptly, shaking off the hand.

"False alarm; that's all," House says again, but his voice is confident again as he strides out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Come on, people; you've still got money in your pockets. Until it's all in _mine_, this game isn't over!"

Cuddy and Wilson look to Dick, confusion and dismay clear in their eyes. He regards them thoughtfully, then says quietly to Wilson, "Get that dose of morphine ready, and keep it handy." Before either of them can speak, Dickinson turns quickly, and follows House back to the game.


	36. Chapter 36: Stakes

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Stakes

When Wilson and Cuddy return to the living room, neither is surprised to find only Dick seated at the table. House is up and pacing; he's doing a really good job of pretending he's alone in the room.

Once they've taken their seats and Cuddy begins to shuffle the cards, House returns to the table with a smile. "What took you two so long? Didn't get to finish making out on the way back from the deli?"

"Yeah, that was it; had to finish what we started," Wilson says, fingering the syringes tucked into the pocket of his jeans.

As Cuddy deals the cards, Dick glances across the table at House. "How's the leg now?" he asks him.

House looks away from Dick, turns deliberately in Wilson's direction. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't psychologists have PhDs after their names? Isn't the 'MD' designation reserved for people who've actually attended medical school?" He ignores Wilson's scowl, and continues, "'Cuz it makes me really nervous when people who don't _rate_ the 'MD' start asking medical-type questions."

Wilson looks hard at House. "How's the leg, House?"

"Now see, that's different," House smiles at Dickinson. "A _real_ doctor, asking a doctor-type question, about a _physical_ problem. That's a whole 'nother ballgame."

"So answer the question." Wilson's tone is low and warning.

"Just fine, Jimmy-me-boy, A-1, peachy keen!" House says expansively. "Hey, look at these cards! I'm in." He slides his ante to the center of the table, then starts watching the others as they study their cards.

Cuddy folds early in the hand. Wilson is watching House. Dick's already raised once, and Wilson calls. House has a pair of nines showing; Dick's got the jack and queen of diamonds. House raises, and looks curiously at Dick, who's just been dealt the eight of hearts. Dick smiles, looking at no one, and raises again.

Wilson's realizing that this isn't about cards anymore. He folds, and sits back in his chair, watching the two men who are watching each other. When the seventh card is dealt, House's up cards are the nines, a two, and a jack. Dick's got the eight, jack, queen, and a five—and he raises. So does House. Dick looks thoughtfully at his hole cards for a full thirty seconds, his face a blank. Then he looks up. "Fold."

House grins and scoops up the pot. "A pair of nines, a lousy pair of nines! I psyched out the shrink; too cool!" he crows.

Cuddy decides that a win for House is the perfect time for a break. "Let's eat, guys," she tells them, rising to go to the kitchen.

As Wilson is clearing the table for dinner, he takes the opportunity to surreptitiously check Dick's hand—he'd had a straight.

House is in a good mood after his win, so while Cuddy and Wilson lay out the platters of food, he's turning on the charm again with Dick. He tells a couple of his most amusing clinic stories, and then asks Dick about his "line of work."

"Anything interesting ever happen on that couch of yours?"

"Nothing like what you see, I'm sure. But occasionally I get the satisfaction of helping to guide a patient through a rough spot, and see them come out of it stronger, more able to help themselves."

"Sounds as exciting as full-time clinic duty," House yawns.

"I suppose the degree of excitement is relative," Dick responds. "For example, I found it _quite_ exciting when you were able to break that painful spasm so quickly."

House is momentarily nonplussed by the comment, but he's saved from having to respond by Cuddy and Wilson joining them at the table.

However, Dick's not ready to let it go, and House glares at him as he continues. "It was fascinating that your concern for James could override such severe pain."

"Thought I explained that," House says tightly.

"Well, you did mention a few possible theories," Dick agrees thoughtfully. "Let's examine them, shall we?"

"Go for it." House is staring at Dickinson with a challenge in his eyes.

"I believe the first thing you suggested was that you were acting on medical instinct. If a shop clerk had fallen off a low stepstool, without loss of consciousness, you wouldn't have spared the clerk a second glance. We knew that James hadn't been knocked out; we heard him groaning immediately after the crash, and he spoke lucidly, and was able to move. So even you discarded that quickly."

House nods shortly; he's still staring intently at Dick.

"Then, you put your actions off to adrenaline. That's a sound theory—except for one thing. Had that been the cause, your pain would have returned the moment the perceived crisis had passed, once the adrenaline had dissipated. Yet you were fine, weren't you?"

House doesn't bother to answer the question; he's very still, just waiting for Dick to continue. His only movement, Dick notes, is that his left hand has begun to gently rub the left thigh. The motion is rhythmic and light, and House is unaware that he's doing it.

"And your final rationale, the one you decided to go with. False alarm." Dick stops speaking, and watches House for a few seconds. House's massage of the thigh muscle has become slightly more rapid. Dick allows his silence to stretch out until he sees House's hand slow, and watches his fingers begin to press into the quadriceps. Then Dickinson turns to Wilson.

"During our daily call a couple of days ago," he begins conversationally, "didn't you tell me that Dr. House had had another 'false alarm' with his left leg?"

By now, Wilson has noted House's actions as well. He's watching with concern as he notes the tight lines around House's eyes, the set of his mouth. Wilson starts to shake his head; he wants to change the subject. He doesn't want to watch this, _certainly_ doesn't want to be a party to it. But Dick is waiting for an answer. "Yes. He said it was a false alarm; it could've been." Under the table, Cuddy squeezes his arm. He looks at her; her eyes are telling him that he must be honest, and that she feels for him—and that his honesty will help House.

Wilson takes a deep breath. "It could've been. But I don't think it was." He looks over at House, who refuses to meet his eyes.

"And how did that spasm end?" Dick asks.

"I'd… gotten very upset. Wasn't doing too well. I'd left the room. The spasm was beginning to peak when I left, but… I had to. I had to get out of there, calm down. House followed me into the kitchen. I guess I was… in pretty bad shape at that point. He… umm… took care of me. And then, he took care of himself. When I… recovered, and went to find him, I expected that he'd be in a lot of pain. But when I got to his room, and questioned him, he told me it was a… false alarm." Wilson stops speaking and looks down. Then he looks at House and tries to send an apology with his gaze; House turns his head away.

Now House is aware of what he's doing with the thigh. He tries to still his hand, and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He lets out an involuntary gasp, then looks defiantly at the other three as he clamps his hand over the muscle. "Still don't get your point," he says roughly to Dick. "Spasm ended; that's a good thing. Doesn't matter _why_ it stopped."

"Oh, but I disagree. It matters very much." The tone of Dick's voice has become gently teasing, taunting. "Because now we know how to fix the problem. How to _cure_ you, so to speak."

The pain in House's thigh has reached the point where he can no longer be bothered attempting to hide his discomfort. He's using both hands now to try to relieve it, to soothe the clenching knot of pain. "A cure; _do_ tell," he rasps, but the undercurrent of sarcasm is clearly forced.

"Sure, but it doesn't bode well for your friends, I'm afraid. Seems this problem doesn't occur until your mind has some free time. None of the attacks have happened when you've been wrapped up in a video game. Nor did tonight's incidents happen while you were actually playing cards. James tells me you're all about the puzzle. But games end, medical cases get solved. And then, where are you? It's just you and your pain again. So you focus on that, get angry at that—keeps your brain busy so you don't have to deal with anything else, until the next puzzle comes along. And the pain recedes—for a little while."

Wilson wonders how much of what Dick is saying is actually getting through to House. He's doubled over the leg now; his breathing is becoming ragged, and he's pale, starting to get sweaty. Wilson removes the med from his pocket, starts to stand. But Cuddy grabs his arm, shakes her head. She won't let go of his arm, and her look is stern. He sighs, and sits back down.

"So this is what we have to do," Dick continues. The gently taunting tone of his voice is gone now; when he speaks, his voice is mocking, almost cruel. "We just have to keep James in some sort of danger. Or Lisa; you care about her enough now that danger to her should be just as effective." He turns to Wilson and Cuddy. "James, you're gonna need to come down with some long term illness, preferably life-threatening. Lisa, maybe a serious traffic accident would do the trick with you. Then _you_," he turns back to House, "won't ever have to acknowledge that the pain is an integral part of who you are. Hell, you won't even have to acknowledge that you care about these people as much as—or _more_ than—your pain and your puzzles. You can tell everybody—you can tell _yourself_—that you're simply doing your job."

Dickinson turns back to the other two. "So you see, guys, it's really very simple. Dr. House will _never_ have to admit to the psychosomatic nature of his illness as long as one of you is in a constant state of peril." He smiles coldly. "And you're both so overprotective of him that I'm certain you'll gladly make that sacrifice."

A growling sound emanates from House as he half-rises from the chair. "Leave them out of it," he gasps. He attempts to take a step towards Dick, and collapses to the floor.

Both Cuddy and Wilson are at his side immediately. Wilson prepares to inject the morphine into the port of the PICC line, but forces himself to look to Dick first. Dickinson nods sadly, apologetically, and Wilson injects the medication while Cuddy monitors House's pulse and respirations. House neither speaks nor opens his eyes.

Ten long, silent minutes later, Cuddy rises from House's side, leaves the room, and returns with the wheelchair. House is comfortable now, and calm. Although he hasn't yet spoken, his eyes are open; he's looking thoughtfully at Dick, gravely at Cuddy and Wilson.

"Let's get you to bed now," Wilson tells House gently. House allows Wilson and Dickinson to lift him from the floor and settle him in the chair. Dick accompanies them to the bedroom. "Thanks," Wilson tells him. "Got him from here."

"No," House says quietly. "Wilson, outta here, please. Even a fake doctor can help me get to bed." He looks at Dickinson, and the quiet, measured tone of his voice doesn't change. "The Incredible Shrinking Dick needs to do some more shrinking. Scram, Jimmy."


	37. Chapter 37: Veracity

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Veracity

Cuddy and Wilson sit next to one another on the couch; Wilson has his head in his hands. Cuddy puts an arm on his shoulders, gently draws him closer. "You know," she says, "I feel like we're parents, waiting for our child to come out of potentially life-saving surgery."

Wilson chokes on a laugh. "You're not far wrong. What's going on in there could be life-_altering_ for him." He raises his head, and notices for the first time that this woman, who's so concerned with comforting him, has tears in her own eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. "This is just as hard on you, isn't it?"

Cuddy nods, and squeezes Wilson's hand. "It was difficult to watch that happen. House is… _House_. It's a shock, I guess, to be reminded that he's just as human, just as _susceptible_, as the rest of us."

"I know. While that was going on, I kept trying to remind myself that Dick was only doing what House himself does to his _own_ patients on a regular basis. No matter how cruel it appears, he believes that the end justifies the means." Wilson sighs, and looks at Cuddy with pained eyes. "All Dick did was pull a 'House' on House. So why does it hurt so much?"

Cuddy smiles at him. "That's easy. We care about our patients, of course, but it's abstract, a _removed_ kind of caring. But House is… family. With him, the caring is tangible; it's real, and yes, it hurts. We're… invested in his recovery, in his well-being. That's why we _must_ let Dr. Dickinson handle this. As much as we wish we could, neither one of us is in any position to help House right now."

"Do you think he's okay?" Wilson asks, looking towards the bedroom.

"Who?" Cuddy asks wryly. "House, or Dick?"

Wilson smiles. "Point taken. It's just that sometimes, I worry about him. House, I mean. For all his bluster, for all his professed hatred of emotion, sometimes he seems so damned... _vulnerable_, so…." Wilson searches for the word that'll describe that indefinable quality of House's that makes both Wilson and Cuddy want to safeguard him, even from himself.

"Innocent," Cuddy finishes for him. "I know what you mean. He spends so much time fitting everything neatly into intellectual boxes, and when something doesn't fit in the box, he doesn't know how to handle it, and he's surprised. It's almost like…." She thinks a minute. "It's like he doesn't know how to protect himself. So he gets hurt."

"Yeah. But then he hides that hurt behind sarcasm or anger, tries to divert your attention from it. And of course, once he's got you distracted, he doesn't have to acknowledge his feelings. So we all wind up thinking of him as just a cold-hearted, unfeeling bastard. And what's sad is, he chalks _that_ up as a win." Wilson shakes his head.

Cuddy's quick to reassure Wilson. "But now he's busted, you know. At least with us. And maybe someday, some of the trust he's given us _may_ spill over to the rest of the human race."

Wilson laughs, stands and goes to the window. He glances out with interest.

"What are you doing?" Cuddy's puzzled.

"Looking for flying pigs, what else?"

Cuddy laughs too. "Okay, you're probably right. Not likely. So let's just be grateful that we've gotten as far as we have with him. And let's trust that Dickinson will be able to take him the rest of the way."

Wilson turns away from the window. "Want some coffee?"

"Sounds good."

For more than an hour, they sit and try to talk about anything but what's going on down the hall. They're only partially successful, though, and when they hear the door open, followed by footsteps in the hallway, they stand, in tandem, anxiously—Cuddy's reminded again of overwrought parents in a surgical waiting room, as Wilson reaches for her hand.

Dick enters the living room and flashes them a tired smile. "Is that coffee? Smells good."

Wilson quickly pours him a cup as they both regard him apprehensively. Dick takes a long swallow of his coffee before speaking. "He's… okay. Fascinating man." He turns to Wilson. "He says to tell you that I'm better than Dr. Phil, but that I'd give Oprah a run for her money. He also requests that you… umm… find him a Nerf ball before our next session." Dick gives Wilson a puzzled smile. "Care to translate?"

Wilson chuckles. "Well, the good news—the _great_ news—is there's gonna _be_ a next session. The bad news is that you'd better get yourself a thesaurus and learn a few new words for 'feelings,' or you're gonna be spending a lot of time dodging a flying ball!"

Dickinson still looks a little confused, but he smiles gamely. "All right, will do. Thanks for the warning. I… think." His dubious expression makes them laugh.

Wilson stands. "I'm gonna go check on him."

"No," Dickinson says quickly. "He… uh… specifically requested Lisa."

A hurt look flashes briefly across Wilson's face, but it's replaced with a wide smile as Dickinson, turning to Cuddy, continues, "He said to tell you that he's willing to be a guinea pig tonight for what he termed your 'new-age relaxation garbage,' but that it would cost you six clinic hours. Does that make any sense to you?"

Cuddy grins and shakes her head. "I'm afraid it makes perfect sense." She starts toward the bedroom.

"Wait," Dick says. "I may be a 'fake' doctor, but I think the morphine's wearing off; he seems kind've restless. And I'm sure that in Dr. House's book, this is practicing medicine without a license, but I'd bet my own license—even if I did fish it out of a Cracker Jack box, according to him—that he could use a breathing treatment."

"I'll take care of it," Cuddy responds. "As far as the restlessness, it's way past time for his hydrocodone, so I'm sure he's experiencing some discomfort. And I won't tell him _you_ suggested the aerosol." Cuddy smiles at Dick and leaves to gather the supplies.

Wilson and Dickinson sit, sipping their coffee. "I understand that you can't tell me what went on, Dick, but I have to ask—is he gonna be okay?"

"Actually, he _ordered_ me to tell you _exactly_ what went on; said you two have a deal—no secrets. But I think that, right now, the most important thing for you to know is that he's embarrassed, worried about seeing you. He's afraid you'll think he's weak."

"He _told_ you that?" Wilson is incredulous.

"Well, no, not precisely. What he _said_ was '_Jimmy's gonna have a field day with this. He'll hold it over my head until I start washing dishes, which means I'll be hearing about it for years_.' And he didn't exactly say it to _me_; he appeared to be… conversing with the ceiling… at the time."

"Yeah, he shares some of his deepest feelings and insights with that ceiling," Wilson says wryly. "I'm well acquainted with their conversations."

The two men smile at each other as Cuddy enters the room. "He's sleeping like a baby," she says, smiling. "And I _do_ mean like a baby; he's completely relaxed, looks like the weight of the world's been lifted from his shoulders this evening."

Wilson looks at Dick. "Thank you. And don't worry about House's little talk with the plaster. When I get finished telling him how much I admire him—all said in code, of course, and probably to his confidant, the ceiling—his ego'll be _so_ big he'll need to add on another room to accommodate it."

Dick laughs, and gives Cuddy and Wilson a sidelong glance as he says slyly, "And then, you'll have to call in The Incredible Shrinking Dick to bring it back down to size."

Both Wilson and Cuddy groan, and hide their heads in their hands. But after a moment, they smile helplessly at each other, and join Dick in his unrestrained laughter.


	38. Chapter 38: Recovery

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Recovery

In the next week, following House's first session with Dick, things don't seem to be a whole lot different. House's left thigh still bothers him at intervals, and a couple of times it's necessary to use morphine to control the pain. Dick comes by every other day, and he and House closet themselves in House's room for a couple of hours each time. Then Dick comes out, and—on House's orders—tells Wilson, and Cuddy, when she's there, what went on in their session. But by the end of the week, Wilson's realizing that he's hearing a bit more laughter coming from behind the closed door, and by the weekend, he's able to point out to House that they haven't needed to utilize the morphine for four days.

So what transpires the following Tuesday night comes as a surprise to both of them, and a real disappointment to House.

"Hey," Wilson says. "Gotta put in a call to your team, let 'em know that I lived through the 'flu, despite your best efforts otherwise. And, of course, I'm gonna have to tell them that now _you_ have it. This should be… fun. Hope Foreman answers the phone. Hope Chase answers the phone. Hell, I hope the _janitor_ answers the phone!"

House smirks. "And I hope Cameron answers. You've been tellin' me for years that I'm too tough on our starry-eyed little idealist; this'll serve you right, having to deal with her in full '_nurture poor, wounded House_' mode. Just stand back when you tell her how miserable I'm feeling, wouldn't wanna get spattered!"

"Huh?"

"Cameron's bleeding heart—makes quite a mess when it really gets pumping." House leans back on the couch with an anticipatory, smug smile, as Wilson reluctantly dials the number.

"Oh… uh… Hi, Dr. Cameron, how are you?" Wilson scowls at House, and deliberately turns his back on House's laughing eyes and evil grin. "I'm feeling much better, thanks. Almost like a human being again…. Yes, we miss you too. Can hardly wait to get back there. But I'm afraid that's not gonna be happening for a while. Seems that cold-hearted meanness isn't quite as protective against the influenza virus as House claimed it was…."

Wilson ignores House, who's sticking his tongue out at him. "Yeah, he's got it, all right. Just started, so he's still blaming it on food poisoning—my cooking, of course."

Wilson listens for quite some time, and by the time Cameron's through speaking, he can't help it—he's rolling his eyes. "No, Cameron, I really don't think that Cuddy'll make an exception because it's House. No, not even if you agreed to wear isolation gear."

House laughs aloud, and Wilson glares, picks up a pillow, and stuffs it in his face. "That sound? House retching, of course. But you know him, doesn't trust anybody to help 'im. 'Course, he'll trust me just fine to do the clean-up, I'm afraid." Wilson tosses a second pillow as House's snickering continues unabated.

"Why should I check on him? He'll just throw me out. Swears he's got it all under control, little bit of Wilson-induced food poisoning, gone by tomorrow. You know the drill. And when he wakes up in the morning with a high fever, _that'll_ be my fault too, for thoughtlessly allowing my germs to replicate in _his_ apartment. You know him; not a sympathetic, concerned bone in his body." Wilson's enjoying himself now, and easily ducks the pillow House has aimed at his head.

"You know me better than that! Would I treat him the way he's treated me these past two weeks?" _With compassion, empathy, patience—forgiveness? You bet! _

Wilson listens again, patiently, and finally sighs—even _he_ has his limits. "Look, I don't know how much clearer I can make this. The man won't even trust me to get a temp. He's probably gonna want to start his own IV, if it comes to that. House trusts _House_. Period. All I, or anyone else, is gonna be good for, for the next week or so, is vomit patrol. So just thank your lucky stars that Cuddy's got us quarantined. And don't worry; I won't let him die. Why would I want to deprive the world of its fair share of House-created misery?"

This time the pillow makes a direct hit to Wilson's head. "Gotta go, Cameron. The 'flu must really be settling in; his sense of humor seems to have died." This time, it's _Wilson_ who sticks his tongue out, as he hangs up the phone.

"Now _that_ was unnecessary," Wilson says, indicating the last pillow-shaped missile. "I was just trying to keep you in character; wouldn't want her showing up here with Child Protective Services in tow, claiming I was neglecting you! Could happen; they've just finished up a case. Too much time on their hands. I think she was hoping to make you their next project."

Wilson grins, but House's expression has suddenly grown very serious. "Keeping busy is good," he mumbles. "They should find something to do."

"Like your clinic hours, maybe?" Wilson asks. House doesn't smile, just shakes his head almost impatiently. He appears pensive, even introspective. This is uncharted territory, even for Wilson. "You, uh… wanna talk?" he asks. House had had a session with Dick earlier, and he's been a little moodier than usual today. Wilson knows that House and Dickinson had discussed coping mechanisms, and that House hadn't been too receptive to Dick's suggestions.

"The shrink says I gotta find ways to keep myself occupied when I don't have a case. Says I think the pain's safer than anything else."

"I know," Wilson says quietly. "He told me. Given any thought to… uh… actually _interacting_ with other people? Finding out what they think, how they feel? May not be as—pardon the expression—_painful_ as you think."

"I'm no good at that." House begins to run his hand lightly over the left thigh. Wilson, hoping that it's just some sort of habit by now, decides not to call attention to it.

"But you could practice; start with your team. Get to know 'em, as people, actual human beings, instead of some sort of diagnostic equipment that happens to breathe. They're really pretty interesting, ya know."

"I start doing that, they're liable to think something's wrong with me." House changes position on the couch, so that his weight isn't on the left leg. The mindless rubbing of the thigh continues.

Wilson smiles. "They _already_ think something's wrong with you; this'll just be something new for them to add to the list; shouldn't be a problem." _Maybe I should say something about the leg, at least point out to him what he's doing. _

"By the time we go back, we'll have been gone over a month. What's everyone gonna think?" House has started pressing firmly into the quad with his fingers. He looks down at his hand, shakes his head, and with determination, lifts his hand up, and away from his leg.

Wilson frowns; this isn't like House. "Since when have you cared what _anyone_ else thought, much less _everyone _else?"

"You're right." The fingers have gone back to the muscle. "I don't care. Doesn't matter. So what, right?" Both hands are now working the quadriceps; House still hasn't acknowledged it to Wilson, and Wilson isn't sure how best to handle this.

"No, it _does_ matter, of course. Most of us care what other people think of us. If nothing else, it helps to… temper our behavior, make it fit into societal norms. Whatever those are." Wilson smiles faintly.

House bends his upper body over his legs, and Wilson hears the sharp intake of breath that lets him know this has already gone on too long. But instinct tells him that this one needs to be House's call, all the way. So he says nothing.

House looks up. "Gonna get a shower."

Wilson closes his eyes briefly. It takes all of his self-control, but he simply nods, and removes the tubing from the PICC port. He doesn't follow House out of the room, just watches his pained, halting progress. He's just gotta trust that the sessions with Dick are helping. He's gotta trust that all that he and Cuddy have done has made a difference. He's gotta trust _House_.

Wilson remains seated on the couch, hands fisted in his lap, eyes fixed towards the hall, where he can hear the heavy, unsteady progress of the cane. When the sound stops, Wilson realizes he's been holding his breath. And when the call comes, quiet and accepting, "Jimmy, need some help here," Wilson breathes again, and knows that things _will_ be all right, soon.

House gives him a grateful, sarcasm-free smile when he appears with the wheelchair. Wilson marvels at how far they've come in just a few weeks. It's been difficult and painful for all of them. But it's paid off, better than he could've hoped. He feels sad, though, that only he and Cuddy will probably ever be privileged to know this gentler side of House—but he takes that for what it is; the spoils of a hard-fought, hard-won battle—an honor. _Sure hope I can remember that the next time he pisses me off; hate to have to kill 'im after all the work we've put in! _

After House has been settled into bed, and Wilson's administered the morphine, both men wait in silence for the medication to take effect. Finally, House speaks. "Should've been able to talk myself outta that one. Shouldn't have needed the med."

Wilson knows that whatever he chooses to say now will matter—a lot. He rises from the chair and sits on the side of the bed, next to House. He goes through the motions of taking a pulse—but he doesn't move his hand from its gentle circle around House's wrist when he's finished counting. "All in good time, House," he tells him quietly. "Changes take time; the _results_ of those changes take even more time. You want everything five minutes ago—lab numbers, medication responses, all of it. But, clichéd as it is, if something's worth _having_, it really is worth waiting for. And believe me, this is worth it. And just maybe, _you're_ worth it, too. So give it the time it needs. You won't be waiting alone." He looks earnestly at House, hopes he's found the right words.

House smiles faintly. "Hey, thought _I_ was the big brother in this outfit! I'm supposed to be the one giving _you_ all this sound, philosophical advice. You're _way_ too young to be makin' this much sense."

Wilson smiles too; he's deeply touched that House has so clearly acknowledged their bond. "Yeah, well," he teases, "Out of the mouths of babes comes wisdom. Or so I'm told."

House turns to him, the old sardonic grin firmly in place. "Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Jimmy, but you so do _not_ qualify as a babe!"

Wilson laughs as he rises to turn out the light. "Maybe not," he says. "But if you'd let me have my blow-dryer, I _could_ be!" He winks, and turns away from the door. There'll be time enough in the next two weeks for Dickinson to work on coping mechanisms with House, time enough for House's _family_ to reinforce those coping mechanisms, and their love—_and_ the trust, too.

Wilson walks down the hallway still smiling, and listening to the sound of House's warm, appreciative chuckle.


	39. Chapter 39: Return

**A/N:**_ Well, kids, this is it—the end of the line. This story, and therefore the trilogy, is officially finished. All of you have been simply awesome! Your reviews have made me laugh, given me inspiration and encouragement, and made me realize that you care as much about this story, and these characters, as I do. Some of you have been faithfully reading and reviewing since the first chapter of 'The Devil, You Say,' and to you, a special thanks for your loyalty. I've made some great friends through this experience. I started 'Devil' in hopes that I could educate at least one other person in the difference between dependence and addiction, and discovered that I'd educated many—goal accomplished. 'Demons' was written to see if I could credibly alter House's character to make it possible for him to trust—goal accomplished. And 'Details' was created to show the reality and potential devastation of psychosomatic illness; I hope I've done that. My heartfelt thanks to all, for making this journey with me. _mjf 27 November 2006

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: Return

"House! Breakfast!" It's their first day back at work, and Wilson knows that House is nervous. He knows, as well, that House will never admit it, even to himself. While the problems with his left leg have diminished greatly, they haven't disappeared—Dick's told them that that could take several months. They're all hopeful that House's return to work will aid in his recovery—but that can't be guaranteed. And Wilson can see the uncertainty hidden in House's eyes. So Wilson's gone out of his way to make certain that this morning runs smoothly. And that, of course, includes macadamia nut pancakes.

When House enters the kitchen, Wilson has to smile. They've succeeded; House looks like he's just spent a couple of rough weeks with the 'flu—but that's all. He's still down about twelve pounds, not an unreasonable amount after a really nasty bout of influenza. But House's favored style of dress, all those undoctorly layers of clothing, camouflage not only the residual weight loss but also the ports of the PICC line. They've decided that another two weeks of nightly TPN will help keep House's energy level up, keep his weight moving in the right direction.

House pours himself a cup of coffee, and sniffs the air appreciatively. "Are those little slices of heaven that I smell?"

"Certainly are," Wilson says, putting the plate down in front of him. "I'm reviving an old family tradition; mom always made our favorite breakfast on the first day of school."

House digs into the pancakes while Wilson goes to answer the front door. He ushers Cuddy into the kitchen.

Cuddy looks at House and shakes her head. "Couldn't you have picked something a little… nicer… for the first day of school? All the other kids will have on their best starched lab coats, and you… you look like a bum!" she says, in her best critical-mother voice.

House doesn't look up from his breakfast. "The two of you are just determined to run this whole school analogy thing into the ground, aren't you? So, in the spirit of the game, lemme just inform the principal that I've got a doctor's note, excusing me from clinic duty for another two weeks. That's _on top_ of what you promised me before, you know," he adds helpfully.

Cuddy looks at Wilson in surprise. "He's already snowed Dick? That didn't take long." Wilson shakes his head and shrugs; this is the first he's heard of it.

House pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, and hands it to Cuddy.

"House, this is _your_ signature!"

"Aren't I a doctor? 'Cuz if I'm _not_, then you and Daddy have a nice day at work; bring me a present when you come home." He smirks at Cuddy while she glowers at the note.

"Fine. So you've got, what, a month of no clinic duty now? But I'm adding these two weeks onto the end of what you already owe me. Which takes us well into the twenty-second century."

"Works for me," House mumbles around his last mouthful of pancakes. He turns to Wilson. "Let's get outta here before she realizes that _that_ means she's stuck with me for eternity."

"No quick escapes from me today, House. We're all going in _my_ car. Wilson finally got the time to put his in the shop a few days ago, remember? And—unless you want to scribble yourself another official doctor's note—you're restricted from the bike until the PICC line comes out. So you're stuck with me."

"Fine, but in _that_ case, I'm instituting another first-day-of-school tradition. The only people who get to lay a finger on the music controls in that car are the people with canes."

Wilson and Cuddy exchange the traditional, weary, House-based eye roll, and then triumphant, indulgent smiles—they'd let House get away with just about anything this morning—and follow him out the door.

There's no conversation on the drive to Princeton Plainsboro—House has made that impossible, with both his choice in music _and_ in volume. Wilson and Cuddy understand; they voice no complaint.

Cuddy and Wilson have already decided that they're gonna walk House to his office. They all ride up in the elevator together, and House steps out without a backward glance. When he figures out that they're following him, and turns around to glare, Wilson has his retort prepared. "Now son, please allow Mommy and Daddy to see you off to your first day of preschool; we've _earned_ the pleasure."

Cuddy jumps right into the game. "And sweetie, remember what you and Mommy talked about. Try not to insult the other kids. Don't steal their food at lunch. Keep your hands to yourself. Keep your _cane_ to yourself. Remember to use your inside voice. And _don't_ pull those nice red fire alarms, okay?" Then she adds, in an undertone, "_And call us if you need us_."

Wilson's whisper is so quiet that it's inaudible to Cuddy. House almost has to read his lips to get it—but he does. "_Whatever it takes. Always…." _For just a moment, the two brothers lock eyes, and in that brief instant, strength, and gratitude, and trust, are exchanged—fully and reciprocally.

They've reached the office door. The team is seated at the table, their backs to them. They have a new case, but somehow the conversation has veered into House's anticipated return. House, Wilson, and Cuddy stand quietly, listening as Cameron says, "If House would just learn to _trust_ someone besides himself, we could've helped him out; we could've made all this a lot easier on him, and on Wilson too. Would it really have _killed_ him to trust someone?"

Foreman, grinning, nods with exaggerated emphasis while Chase, with a smirk, intones, "_Uh-huh!_"

"_Good_ morning, people! What've we got?" House booms, as he stalks confidently into the room. Then he turns and winks at Cuddy and Wilson—just before he shuts the door unceremoniously in their faces.


End file.
